■@) 



UlBRARY OF CONGRESS.; 



lARY OF J 



# : 

t UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 







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VfrMoftef^Ri 



FHQm 








. naiuyoRK 
JD.j4l>i?LaGon8^Go, 

1865. 



jncELYf/.m. 



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Cgra Americana; 



VERSES OF PRAISE AND FAITH, 



AMERICAN POETS, 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED 



5/ 

REV. GEORGE T. RIDER, M.A. 



NEfT YORK: 

D. Appleton & Company, 

443 and 445 Broadioay. 
1865. 









Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States 

for the Southern District of New York. 



11 



i, V 




PREFACE. 



A THOUGHTFUL survcy of our American 
Poetry not only suggests, at the outset, the very 
brief period covered by the history of our litera- 
ture ; but, at the same time, it discloses and 
affirms both the individuality and nationality of 
our literature : — that, as American thinking and 
living have very little to do with the Old World, 
so, our literature, in its development, is not an 
ofF-shoot of any European stock, nor an exotic 
accHmated and wonted to our young life ; but is, 
itself, a logical and legitimate outgrowth of that 
life, owing little to the Old World and its liter- 
ature beyond its well-ripened and many-blooded 
language. 

Historically, our lineage touches the Mother 
Country at a time of intellectual degeneracy. 



iv Preface. 

The days of the great worthies had gone down 
in a twilight of conventionalism, and the spon- 
taneity and creative force of the old Art had 
given way to the feeble, debased spirit of the 
new. 

Apart from this unwholesome impulse reach- 
ing over our early colonial days, we note the 
perpetual crisis hanging over them, bringing 
unrest, fever, and weariness j the diiFerent lan- 
guages and peoples awaiting their slow assimila- 
tion; the phrensy of fanaticism displacing a lov- 
ing faith ; and, finally, the widely-spread moral 
epidemic of skepticism, bred from our French 
alliance, and lodged in all the high places of the 
land. 

Given a problem involving so many per- 
plexed questions, such subtle relations and pos- 
sibilities, so many portents of disaster with so 
Uttle of promise, we may well inquire whether 
history has elsewhere recorded a more brilliant 
and rapid solution. 

The Puritan element was intrinsically un- 
poetical. It was intensely polemic and practical. 
We need not call in question the soundness of 



Preface. v 

its moral purposes even if we are driven to confess 
the rudeness of its early culture. To the Puri- 
tan, the Beautiful was recognized in none of its 
spiritual relations : the Beautiful was rather a 
sorceress— an unwholesome mirage of experi- 
ence that called for the Exorcist. Its verses, 
therefore, were as rugged and forbidding as were 
the domestic and social polity whence they sprung. 

Later, when Patriotism, under the fervent 
fires of the Revolution, found a voice in song, 
her verses, for the most part, were feeble echoes 
of the English Heroic rhyme, and wanting, so 
far as Art-form is concerned, in every element 
of individuality. 

Still less remains to be said respecting the 
poetry of the Middle and Southern Colonies. 
Apart from a few faint echoes of the Chivalrous 
and Amatory poetry of England and the Con- 
tinent, scarcely a trace survives. 

Within the memory of many now living, 
therefore, may be fixed the virtual boundary of 
our earliest devout poetry. 

The religious poetry of England reaches 
over more than three hundred years : ours, over 



vi Preface. 

not much more than half a century. A few 
general considerations will discover and establish 
their true relations, and exhibit their main points 
of contrast. 

After a painstaking survey of the whole 
field, we are driven to the conclusion that the 
Christian Faith seems incidental rather than in- 
trinsic — an accidental mood, rather than an in- 
forming spirit quickening more or less vividly 
our American poetry. Few of our poets are dis- 
tinctively or altogether religious. There are 
volumes of poems written by Christian men 
and women without a disclosure of the Christian 
Faith: without either the light or heat of its 
presence. Again, in other directions. Faith 
takes the shape of sentiment or of ethical specu- 
lation hardly level with the aspirations of Cle- 
anthes or Pythagoras. 

Where the older school of English poetry 
is strongest, ours is weakest : where they are 
rich, we are poor. 

Historic Christianity, — the Super-natural 
fact of a present Christ building up a new and 
inner life, — seems, as yet, at work at the surface. 



Preface. vii 

at the circumference of our national conscious- 
ness, while the Gnostic spirit lies entombed at 
its heart. So that we have too often the Boreal 
chill, when we seek noon-day warmth ; a tender 
facility for symbolizing among blossoms and 
birds and brooks, with only a scholarly and 
aesthetic sense of the Gospels : so that we find, 
in the main, the Christianity of our general poetry 
shadowy and spectral, felt rather as a Philosophy 
than a Belief. 

The later period of our poetry, however, 
gives promise of something more earnest and 
evangelic. 

To make the point clearer — ^the multitude 
of the English poets carry with them an atmos- 
phere of genuine Faith. Spencer and Shake- 
speare are as unequivocally Christian, in Allegory 
and Drama, as are Milton and Wordsworth in 
Epic and Sonnet and Ode. In all their work, 
in larger or less degree, wrought the common 
Faith. 

There was no line of definition fixed be- 
tween the devout and the secular poet. While 
some few were given altogether to sacred verse. 



viii Preface. 

fewer were either altogether secular or unchris- 
tian. Indeed, if the parallel were pursued far 
enough in the opposite direction, we would 
sometimes find Faith and Secularity in almost 
profane intimacy; where, with us, we meet 
habitually an estrangement almost as shocking to 
the moral sense. 

A Christian poet need not always write 
Hymns or even devout verses ; yet the leaven of 
Faith should, in some degree, be felt in what- 
ever he writes. 

Again, our religious poetry lacks that deep 
Historical back-ground of Ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture and tradition — that rich Liturgical usage 
and feeling which lend so many grave and varied 
splendours of ripeness, mystery, colour, and tone, 
to the English school. It is wanting, too, in 
the congruity and unity that in a large degree 
flow from these broad influences. Neither do 
we behold that steady glow of style, born of 
high polish and consummate discipline, cherished 
in the University life. 

But we have caught from Nature more than 
she has hitherto vouchsafed since the days of 



Preface. ix 

the Psalmist. All her sweetest inspirations have 
come down like life-blood into our sacred verse. 
Besides, we have developed a subjectivity, calm, 
pure, and worshipful, wherein the Soul herself 
sings with a rapture above and beyond her Art. 
And not unwillingly have we felt the undertones 
of the old Church Life and Art breathing through 
new yet congenial forms with a young tender- 
ness and beauty. It is a comfortable thought, 
in this connection, that the right and wrong, the 
woe and welfare of humanity, have largely tem- 
pered our verses with evangelic force. 

It would not be hard to show, that, in living 
sympathy with the purest school of English, in 
the natural use of its best and earliest graces, 
in the management and mastery of finest rhythms, 
in delicacy and energy, in subjection of words to 
the subtlest uses of thought and spirit, much of 
our later verse closely approaches, if it does not 
abundantly realize, the highest standard of ex- 
cellence. 

This volume undertakes to gather in the 
best sacred verses from all available sources, 
entirely irrespective of Doctrinal or Ecclesiasti- 



X Preface. 

cal affinities, or individual preferences; — verses 
breathing something of a common Catholicity, 
while representing the Lyric spirit of our diiFer- 
ent Communions : and the compiler has taken 
especial pains to render it a discriminating and 
fairly proportioned representative of the whole 
subject. The Hmited number of pages, it is 
hoped, will sufficiently account for the absence 
of certain poems and authors entitled to con- 
sideration in any general, very comprehensive 
work. 

The compiler desires to express his obliga- 
tions for the use of many public and private 
Libraries; and especially to convey his grateful 
thanks to those literary gentlemen and authors, 
who have largely aided him in the progress of 
this work. 

G. T. R. 



Ittir^^ oi Jfir^t pms, 



Above, below, in Sky and sod 

Ah ! why should bitter tears be shed 

Alas ! how swift the moments fly 

All are architects of Fate 

All before us lies the way 

All things in nature are beautiful types 

Although the vine its fruit deny . 

Always with us, always with us 

At morning twilight when the dreaming soul 



PAOB 
156 

162 

70 
60 



Beneath the shadow of the Cross , . . 37 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by .196 

Beyond where Cedron's waters flow ... 29 

Blow on Thou Mighty Wind . . , .65 

Bow, angels, from your glorious state . . 266 

Break ye the bread, and pour the wine . . .121 

But Thee, O God ! but Thee . . . 56 



xu 



Index of First Lines. 



Calm on the listening ear of night 
Come, Kingdom of our God 
Creator Spirit ! come and bless us 

Day of vengeance without morrow 

Dear Friend, whose presence in the house 

Deep within a quiet valley . 



6 
88 

74 

229 
119 

278 



Father ! beneath Thy sheltering wings 
Fling out the Banner ! let it float 
Flow on sweet tears of joy and peace 
Forth flames the standard of our King 

Glad Easter morning came, and bright as 

Hark ! hark ! with harps of gold 

He came not with His heavenly crown 

He sendeth sun, He sendeth shower . 

Holy Spirit, Truth divine 

How calm and beautiful the morn 

How pleasing is Thy voice 

I cannot plainly see the way 

If thou dost truly seek to live 

I had a little daughter . 

I love Thy Kingdom, Lord . 

I mourn no more my vanished years 

In the beginning was the Word 

In the silent midnight watches . 



176 
84 

123 
38 

41 

II 

3 

158 

72 

48 

160 

249 
127 
226 
100 

2CO 
III 

20 



Index of First Lines. 



xin 



In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
I once made search, in hope to find 



PAGB 

257 



Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Jerusalem, my Home 

Jesus a child His course begun 

Joy and gladness ! joy and gladness ! 



109 

X06 

130 

8 



Lift your glad voices in triumph on high . . 50 

Light waits for thee in heaven : inspiring thought . 271 

Like Noah's weary dove .... 80 

Lord, lead the way the Saviour went . . . 145 

Lord ! who, o'erlooking sin and sin . . . 29a 

Lord with glowing heart I'll praise Thee . .181 

Love Divine, that stooped to share . . . 166 

Lowly and solemn be . . . . .213 

My Faith looks up to Thee . . . . 170 

Nearer my God to Thee , . . .251 

No better days can ever rise . . . , 136 

No bird-song floated down the hill . , . 268 

No human eyes Thy face may see . . . 78 

Now gird your patient loins again . . .1 

O angel of the land of peace . , . 232 

O blessed Jesus ! When I see Thee bending , • 17 

O Bread to pilgrims given . . , , 126 

Oft in the summer days, I've marked some wild . • '39 



XIV 



Index of First Lines. 



Oh deem not they are blest alone 

Oh mournful, mournful time 

O Holy, holy, holy Lord 

O lifted hands of sovereign might 

O Love Divine ! lay on me burdens if Thou wilt 

O my Lord, I have but Thee 

O my Saviour ! art Thou there 

Once more thou comest, O delicious Spring 

Once the angel started back 

One ! Lord, whose daily mercies number , 

Onward speed thy conquering flight . 

O Sacred Head, now wounded . 

O Thou Great Friend to all the sons of men 

O Thou in whose eternal name 

O Thou that once on Horeb stood 

Out and in the river is winding 



FAcn 
2l6 

246 

76 

191 

a37 

183 

24 

40 

5* 
286 
179 

31 
151 

68 
273 
261 



Pause not to dream of the future before 
** Perfect through suffering " may it be 



148 
214 



Rocked in the cradle of the deep 



177 



Securely cabined in the ship below 

See before us, in our journey 

She died — yet is not dead 

She stood up in the meekness of a heart 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing 

Still as our day our strength shall be 



172 
242 
213 
"5 
IS 
25 



Index of First Lines. 



XV 



Still, still with Thee — when purple morning breaketh 
Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary 
Strangers no more we wildly roam 



FAGB 

134 

174 

86 



That mystic word of Thine, O Sovereign Lord 

The bells — the bells — the Christmas bells 

The Christian Banner ! Dread no loss . 

The enthusiast brooding in his cell apart 

The mourners came at break of day 

The perfect world by Adam trod 

There is an hour of peaceful rest . 

There is a Reaper whose name is Death 

There is no flock, however watched and tended 

The smile of Summer's golden brow . 

The Spirit in our hearts . 

The Lord of Hosts whose guiding hand 

Thou art to be a priest in holy things 

Thou must be born again 

Thou, who lookest with pitying eye 

Thousands completely fed 

Thy cruel Crown of Thorns . 

To prayer, to prayer j — the morning breaks 

To Thine eternal arms, O God 

To think for aye j to breathe immortal breath 

Trembling before Thine awful throne 



as 3 
13 
98 

35 
46 
9a 

264 
220 

193 
280 
236 
90 
93 
"3 
293 
117 
204 
187 
128 
272 
146 



Watcher, who watch'st by the bed of pain 
Waning life and weary 



22 
54 



xvi Index of First Lines. 

FAOB 

We ask not that our path be always bright . .185 

What can I do the cause of God to aid . . 141 

When adverse winds and waves arise . . .168 

Who deems that Holy Church has lost . , loa 

Wild superstition named the flower . . .27 

Wilt Thou not visit me .... 234 

Within her downy cradle, there lay a little child . . 222. 

We ask not that our path be always bright . 185 

Yes ! bear them to their rest . . . . ^83 

Young soldier of the cross beware . . . 13a 



Wu^^ %mmtmxu. 



ADVENT. 



'Rejoice in the Lord alway; and again I say, Rejoice. 
Lord is at hand." 



The 




OW gird your patient loins again, 

Your wasting torches trim ; 
fThe Chief of all the sons of men- 
Who will not welcome Him ? 
Rejoice ! the hour is near j at length 

The Journeyer on His way 
Comes in the greatness of His strength 
To keep His holy day. 



With cheerful hymns and garlands sweet, 

Along His wintry road. 
Conduct Him to His green retreat. 

His sheltered, safe abode ; 



Lyra Americana. 

Fill all His courts with sacred songs, 

And from the temple wall 
Wave verdure o'er the joyful throngs 

That crowd his festival. 

And still more greenly in the mind 

Store up the hopes sublime 
Which then are born for all mankind, 

So blessed was the time ; 
And underneath these hallowed eaves 

A Saviour will be born 
In every heart that Him receives 

On His triumphal morn. 

William Croswell. 




Lyra Americana. 




THE TWO ADVENTS. 

E came not, with His heavenly- 
crown, His sceptre clad with power. 
His coming, was in feebleness, the 
infant of an hour ; 
An humble manger cradled, first, the Virgin's 

holy birth. 
And lowing herds companioned there, the Lord 
of heaven and earth. 



He came not in His robe of wrath, with arm 

outstretched to slay ; 
But on the darkling paths of earth, to pour 

celestial day. 
To guide in peace the wandering feet ; the 

broken heart to bind ; 
And bear, upon the painful cross, the sins of 

human kind. 



4 Lyra Americana. 

And Thou hast borne them, Saviour meek ! and 

therefore unto Thee, 
In humbleness, and gratitude, our hearts shall 

offered be j 
And greenly, as the festal bough, that, on Thy 

altar lies. 
Our souls, our bodies, all be Thine, a living 

sacrifice ! 

Yet once again. Thy sign shall be, upon the 
heavens, displayed. 

And earth, and its inhabitants, be terribly afraid ; 

For, not in weakness, clad. Thou com'st our 
woes, our sins, to bear. 

But girt with all Thy Father's might. His ven- 
geance to declare. 

The terrors of that awful day. Oh ! who shall 

understand ? 
Or, who abide, when Thou in wrath, shalt lift 

Thy holy hand ? 
The earth shall quake, the sea shall roar, the 

sun in heaven grow pale. 
But Thou hast sworn, and wilt not change. Thy 

faithful will not fail. 

Then grant us. Saviour ! so to pass our time in 
trembling, here. 



Lyra Americana. 5 

That when, upon the clouds of heaven, Thy 

glory shall appear. 
Uplifting high our joyful heads, in triumph we 

may rise. 
And enter, with Thine angel train. Thy temple, 

in the skies ! 

Bishop Doane. 




Lyra Americana 




THE BIRTHSONG OF CHRIST. 



ALM on the listening ear of night 
Come Heaven's melodious strains, 

Where wild Judea stretches far 
O'er silver-mantled plains. 



Celestial choirs from courts above 
Shed sacred glories there ; 

And angels with their sparkling lyres 
Make music in the air. 

The answering hills of Palestine 
Send back the glad reply ; 

And greet from all their holy heights 
The Day Spring from on high. 

O'er the blue depths of Galilee 
There comes a holier calm ; 

And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, 
Her silent groves of palm. 



Lyra Americana. 

Glory to God ! " the sounding skies 
Loud with their anthems ring ; 

Peace to the earth, good will to men. 
From Heaven's eternal King." 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem : 

The Saviour now is born, 
And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 

Break the first Christmas morn. 

E. H. Sears. 




8 Lyra Americana. 




CHRISTMAS HYMN, 



OY and gladness ! joy and gladness ! 

Oh ! happy day ! 
Every thought of sin and sadness 

Chase, chase away. 
Heard ye not the angels telling, 
Christ the Lord of might excelling, 
On the earth with man is dwelling, 

Clad in our clay ? 



With the shepherd-throng around Him 

Haste we to bow ; 
By the angel's sign they found Him, 

We know Him now; 
New-born babe of houseless stranger. 
Cradled low in Bethlehem's manger. 
Saviour from our sin and danger, 
Jesus 'tis Thou ! 



Lyra Americana, 

God of Life, in mortal weakness, 

Hail, Virgin-born! 
Infinite in lowly meekness. 

Thou wilt not scorn, 
Though all Heaven is singing o'er Thee, 
And gray wisdom bows before Thee, 
When our youthful hearts adore Thee, 

This holy morn. 

Son of Mary, (blessed mother !) 
Thy love we claim ; 
Son of God, our elder brother, 
(O gentle name !) 
To Thy Father's throne ascended. 
With Thine own His glory blended, 
Thou art, all Thy trials ended, 
Ever the same. 



Thou wert born to tears and sorrows, 

Pilgrim divine ; 
Watchful nights and weary morrows. 

Brother were Thine : 
By Thy fight with strong temptation. 
By Thy cup of tribulation, 
Oh ! thou God of our salvation. 

With mercy shine ! 
1* 



10 Lyra Americana. 

In Thy holy footsteps treading 

Guide, lest we stray ; 

From Thy word of promise shedding 
Light on our way ; 

Never leave us nor forsake us. 

Like Thyself in mercy make us, 

And at last to glory take us, 
Jesus, we pray. 

George W. Bethune. 




Lyra Americana. ii 




CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

ARK ! hark! with harps of gold, 

What anthem do they sing ? — 
The radiant clouds have backward 
rolled, 

And angels smite the string. 
" Glory to God ! " — ^bright wings 
Spread glistening and afar. 
And on the hallowed rapture rings 
From circling star to star. 

" Glory to God ! " repeat 

The glad earth and the sea ; 
And every wind and billow fleet. 

Bears on the jubilee. 

Where Hebrew bard hath sung. 

Or Hebrew bard hath trod. 
Each holy spot has found a tongue: 

" Let glory be to God." 



12 Lyra Americana. 

Soft swells the music now 

Along that shining choir, 
And every seraph bends his brow 

And breathes above his lyre. 

What words of heavenly birth 

Thrill deep our hearts again, 
And fall like dew-drops to the earth ? 

" Peace and good will to men." 

Soft ! — ^yet the soul is bound 
With rapture like a chain : 

Earth, vocal, whispers them around. 
And heaven repeats the strain. 
Sound, harps, and hail the morn 
With every golden string ; — 

For unto us this day is born 
A Saviour and a King ! 

E. H. Chapin. 



Lyra Americana. 13 




CHRISTMAS BELLS, 

HE bells — the bells — the Christmas 
bells 
How merrily they ring ! 
As if they felt the joy they tell 
To every human thing. 
The silvery tones, o'er vale and hill, 

Are swelling soft and clear. 

As, wave on wave, the tide of sound 

Fills the bright atmosphere. 

The bells — ^the merry Christmas bells. 

They're ringing in the morn ! 
They ring when in the eastern sky 

The golden light is born ; 
They ring, as sunshine tips the hills. 

And gilds the village spire — 
When, through the sky, the sovereign sun 

Rolls his full orb of fire. 



14 Lyra Americana. 

The Christmas bells — the Christmas bells. 

How merrily they ring ! 
To weary hearts a pulse of joy, 

A kindlier life they bring. 
The poor man on his couch of straw, 

The rich on downy bed, 
Hail the glad sounds, as voices sweet 

Of angels overhead. 

The bells — the silvery Christmas bells. 

O'er many a mile they sound ! 
And household tones are answering them 

In thousand homes around. 
Voices of childhood, blithe and shrill. 

With youth's strong accents blend. 
And manhood's deep and earnest tones 

With woman's praise ascend. 

The bells — the solemn Christmas bells. 

They're calling us to prayer ; 
And hark, the voice of worshippers 

Floats on the morning air. 
Anthems of noblest praise there'll be. 

And glorious hymns to-day, 
Te Deums loud and Glorias : 

Come, to the Church, — away. 

John W. Brown. 



Lyra Americana. 



A VIS ON. 



CHORUS. 




HOUT the glad tidings, exultingly 

sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is 

King! 



Sion, the marvellous story be telling, 

The Son of the Highest, how lowly His 
birth ! 
The brightest Archangel in glory excelling, 
He stoops to redeem thee, he reigns upon 
earth. 

Tell how He cometh ; from nation to nation. 
The heart-cheering news let the earth echo 
round ; 
How free to the faithful He offers salvation. 
How His people with joy everlasting is 
crowned. 



i6 



Lyra Americana. 



Mortals, your homage be gratefully bringing, 
And sweet let the gladsome hosannas arise; 

Ye angels, the full hallelujah be singing; 

One chorus resound through the earth and the 
skies. 

MUHLENBURG. 




Lyra Americana. 17 




CHRIST WASHING THE DISCIPLES* 
FEET. 

BLESSED Jesus ! when I see Thee 
bending, 
Girt as a servant, at Thy servants' 
feet. 

Love, lowliness, and might, in zeal all blending. 
To wash their dust away, and make them 
meet 
To share Thy feast. I know not to adore, 
Whether Thy humbleness or glory more. 

Conscious Thou art of that dread hour impend- 
ing, 
When Thou must hang in anguish on the 
tree; 
Yet, as from the beginning, to the ending 

Of Thy sad hfe. Thine own are dear to 
Thee, — 



l8 Lyra Americana. 

And Thou wilt prove to them, ere Thou dost 

part, 
The untold love which fills Thy faithful heart. 

The day, too, is at hand, when, far ascending. 
Thy human brow the crown of God shall 
wear, 
Ten thousand saints and radiant ones attending, 

To do Thy will and bow In homage there ; 
But Thou dost pledge, to guard Thy church 

from 111, 
Or bless with good, Thyself a servant still. 

Meek Jesus ! to my soul, Thy spirit lending. 
Teach me to live, like Thee, In lowly love ; 

With humblest service all Thy saints befriend- 
ing, 
Until I serve before Thy throne above — 

Yes ! serving e*er my foes, for Thou didst seek 

The feet of Judas in Thy service meek. 

Daily my pilgrim feet, as homeward wending 
My weary way, are sadly stained with sin ; 

Daily do Thou, Thy precious grace expend- 
ing, 
Wash me all clean without, and clean within, 

And make me fit to have a part with Thee 

And Thine, at last, in Heaven's festivity. 



Lyra Americana. 



»9 



O blessed name of Servant! comprehending 

Man's highest honour in his humblest name-, 
For Thou, God's Christ, that office recom- 
mending, 
The throne of mighty power didst truly claim ; 
He who would rise like Thee, like Thee must 

owe 
His glory only to his stooping low. 

George W. Bethune. 




20 Lyra Americana. 




THE HEART'S SONG. 

"Behold I stand at the door.*' 

N the silent midnight watches, 

List thy bosom-door ; 
How it knocketh — knocketh — knocketh, 
Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating, 

'Tis thy heart of sin ; 
'Tis thy Saviour stands entreating. 
Rise and let me in. 

Death comes down with equal footstep 

To the hall and hut : 
Think you Death will stand a-knocking 

Where the door is shut ! 
Jfesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 

But thy door is fast : 
Grieved, at length away He turneth, 

Death breaks in at last ! 



Lyra Americana. 21 

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating 

Christ to let thee in ; 
At the door of Heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 
Nay, alas, thou foolish virgin. 

Hast thou then forgot, 
Jesus vi^aited long to know thee. 

But — He knows thee not ! 

A. C. CoxE. 




22 Lyra Americana. 




JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BT. 

ATCHER, who watch'st by the 

bed of pain. 
While the stars sweep on in 
their midnight train ; 
Stifling the tear for thy loved one's sake ; 
Holding thy breath, lest his sleep should break ; 
In thy loneliest hours, there is a helper nigh, 
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Stranger, afar from thy native land. 
Whom no one takes with a brother's hand, 
Table, and hearthstone are glowing free. 
Casements are sparkling, but not for thee. 
There is one who can tell of a home on high, 
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Sad one, in secret, bending low, 
A dart In thy breast, that the world may not 
know. 



Lyra Americana. 23 

Striving the favour of God to vdn, — 
Asking His pardon for days of sin ; 
Press on, press on, vi^ith thy earnest cry, 
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Mourner, who sits in the church-yard lone, 
Scanning the lines on that marble stone, — 
Plucking the weeds from thy children's bed. 
Planting the myrtle, the rose instead — 
Look up, look up, with thy tearful eye, 
" Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Fading one, with the hectic streak, 
With thy vein of fire, and thy burning cheek, 
Fear'st thou to tread the darkened vale 
Look unto One, who can never fail. 
He hath trod it Himself, He will hear thy sigh, 
" Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 



24 Lyra Americana. 




THE PITTING CHRIST. 

MY Saviour ! art Thou there ? 
From within this wasted heart, 
Cries of shame and deep woe start 
Empty chambers, empty halls, 
Everywhere some lone voice calls : 
There dwelt pleasure : there came sin : 
Wailing sounds now roam within. 
Saviour ! Oh ! if Thou art there, 
Be my heart of all else bare ! 

O my Saviour art Thou there ? 
Otherwheres I looked too long ; 
Till I read thy dear looks wrong ; 
Love on others I have thrown. 
And my Lord have all unknown. 
Now, by loss and sorrow wise ! 
Lord! if Thou, indeed, be there, 
Give Thy prodigal his share ! 

Robert Lowell. 



Lyra Americana. 




STILL AS OUR DAT. 

"Aa thy day so shall thy strength be." 

'TILL as our day our strength 

shall be, 
While still, good Lord, we trust in 

Thee; 

While on Thy promise we depend, 
Our Saviour, brother, father, friend ; 
Our great High Priest, to whom were known 
Temptations, troubles, like our own. 
Who can be touched with mortal care. 
For Thou didst all our sorrows bear. 

Oh Lamb of God, the world on Thee, 
Hath laid her deep infirmity ; 
And in the cross that weighed Thee down. 
The bitter scourge, the thorny crown. 
Thou all her griefs, and all her fears. 
Didst bear through all Thine earthly years. 
The guiltless, for the guilty one, 
For man, the Everlasting Son. 



26 Lyra Americana. 

Oh Saviour mine, how great the xove, 
That brought Thee from Thy throne above ! 
That love, what seraph's lyre can tell, 
That wondrous love unspeakable ! 
So infinite, so all divine ! 
Unlike all other love but Thine, 
Like none but Jesu, none but Thee 
Thou bleeding Lamb of Calvary ! 

Give me. Thou glorious Lamb of God, 
Daily to walk, where Thou hast trod, 
And in adoring rapture grow. 
As in Thy lowly steps I go. 
Give me to ponder, more and more. 
Thy words and Thy example's lore. 
That walking here, my God with Thee, 
Still as my days my strength may be. 

A. C. CoxE. 




Lyra Americana. 27 




THE PASSION FLOWER. 

ILD Superstition named the 

flower 
In memory of that awful hour, 
When HE whom heaven and 

earth adore 
The death of shame and sorrow bore. 

They called the purple circlet there 
The crown of thorns 'twas His to wear ; 
And every leaf seemed to their eye 
Memorial of His agony. 

'Tis fancy all — ^yet do not scorn 
The thought of adoration born ! 
But let each flower that meets our sight 
Recall the Lord of life and light. 

There's not one flower that decks the vale, 
And with its fragrance scents the gale, 
That does not bid our hearts arise 
To Him who dwells beyond the skies. 



28 



Lyra Americana. 



In valley lone, on mountain height, 
All In one common tale unite : 
All speak His love, who died, that we 
Might live through all eternity. 

Anna Eastburn. 




Lyra Americana. 29 




BEYOND WHERE CEDRON'S WATERS 
FLOW, 

E YOND where Cedron's waters flow, 
Behold the suffering Saviour go 

To sad Gethsemane ; 
His countenance is all divine, 
Yet grief appears in every line. 

He bows beneath the sins of men ; 
He cries to God, and cries again. 

In sad Gethsemane ; 
He lifts His mournful eyes above — 
" My Father can this cup remove ? " 

With gentle resignation still. 
He yielded to His Father's will 

In sad Gethsemane ; 
" Behold Me here, Thine only Son ; 
And, Father, let Thy will be done." 



30 Lyici Americana. 

The Father heard ; and angels, there, 
Sustained the Son of God in prayer. 

In sad Gethsemane ; 
He drank the dreadful cup of pain — 
Then rose to life and joy again. 

When storms of sorrow round us sweep. 
And scenes of anguish make us weep, 

To sad Gethsemane 
We'll look, and see the Saviour there. 
And humbly bow, hke Him, in prayer. 

S. F. Smith. 




Lyra Americana. 31 




O HA UPT FOIL BL UT UND WUNDEN. 

SACRED Head, now wounded, 
With grief and shame weighed 
down; 
Now scornfully surrounded 
With thorns, Thine only crown ; 
O sacred Head, what glory. 

What bliss till now was Thine ; 
Yet though despised and gory, 
I joy to call Thee mine. 

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered. 

Was all for sinner's gain : 
Mine, mine was the transgression, 

But Thine the deadly pain. 
Lo, here I fall, my Saviour ! 

'Tis I deserve Thy place ; 
Look on me with Thy favour 

Vouchsafe on me Thy grace. 



32 Lyra Americana. 

The joy can ne'er be spoken 

Above all joys beside, 
When, in Thy body broken, 

I thus with safety hide. 
Lord of my life desiring 

Thy glory now I see ; 
Beside Thy cross expiring 

I'd breathe my soul to Thee. 

What language shall I borrow 

To thank Thee, dearest Friend, 
For this Thy dying sorrow. 

Thy pity without end? 
O make me Thine forever j 

And should I fainting be, 
Lord, let me never, never 

Outlive my love for Thee. 

Be near me when I'm dying, 

O, show Thy cross to me ; 
And to my succour flying. 

Come, Lord, and set me free ' 
When strength and comfort languish 

Amidst the final throe. 
Release me from my anguish 

By Thine own pain and woe. 

J. W. Alexander. 



Lyra Americana. 33 




STRENGTH FROM THE CROSS. 



T is finished ! Man of Sorrows ! 
From Thy cross our frailty borrows 
Strength to bear and conquer thus. 



While extended there we view Thee, 
Mighty Sufferer ! draw us to Thee ; 
Sufferer victorious ! 

Not in vain for us uplifted, 
Man of Sorrows, wonder-gifted ! 
May that sacred emblem be 5 

Lifted high amid the ages. 
Guide of heroes, saints, and sages. 
May it guide us still to Thee ! 

Still to Thee ! whose love unbounded, 
Sorrow's depths for us has sounded. 

Perfected by conflicts sore. 

2* 



34 



Lyra Americana. 



Honoured be Thy cross forever ; 
Star, that points our high endeavour 
Whither Thou hast gone before ! 
T. H. Hedge. 




Lyra Americana. 35 




BEFORE THE IVORY STJTUE OF 
CHRIST. 

HE enthusiast brooding in his cell 
apart 
O'er the sad image of the Cruci- 
fied, — 

The drooping head, closed lips, and pierced 
side, — 
A holy vision fills his raptured heart ; 

With heavenly power inspired, his unskilled 

arm 
Shapes the rude block to this transcendent 
form. 
Oh Son of God ! thus, ever thus, would I 
Dwell on the loveliness enshrined in 

Thee ; 
The lofty faith, the sweet humility ; 
The boundless love, the love that could not 
die. 



36 



Lyra Americana. 



And as the sculptor, with Thy glory 

warm, 
Gave to this chiseled ivory Thy form. 
So would my spirit, in Thy thought divine. 
Grow to a semblance, deep as this, of 
Thine. 

Anne C. Lynch. 




Lyra Americana. 37 




A NEW COMMANDMENT, 



ENEATH the shadow of the Cross, 

As earthly hopes remove, 
His new commandment Jesus gives. 

His blessed word of Love. 



O bond of union strong and deep ! 

O bond of perfect peace ! 
Not e'en the lifted cross can harm. 

If we but hold to this. 

Then, Jesus, be Thy Spirit ours ! 

And swift our feet shall move 
To deeds of pure self-sacrifice. 

And the sweet tasks of love. 

S. Longfellow. 



38 Lyra Americana. 




VEXILLA REGIS. 



ORTH flames the standard of our 
King, 
Bright gleams the mystic sign, 
When Hfe bore death of suffer- 
ing, 
And death wrought life divine. 

The stabs of the accursed spear. 
Brought forth the healing flood, 

To cleanse sin's stains so dark and drear. 
With water and with blood. 



Fulfilled is each prophetic word. 
Each faith-inspiring strain, 

Telling the nations of that Lord, 
Who by the Cross should reign. 



Lyra Americana. 



39 



Hail, Cross of Christ ! man's only hope ; 

While now we gaze and pray, 
Dear Lord, th' exhaustless fountains ope, 

And wash our sins away. 

Bishop Williams. 

{From the Breviary.^ 




40 Lyra Americana. 




EASTER. 

NCE more thou comest, O delicious 
Spring ! 
And as thy light and gentle foot- 
steps tread 

Among earth's glories, desolate and dead, 
Breathest revival over everything. 
Thy genial spirit is abroad to bring 

The cold and faded into Hfe and bloom, 
Emblem of that which shall unlock the tomb, 
And take away the fell destroyer's sting. 
Therefore thou hast the warmer welcoming : 
For Nature speaks not of herself alone. 
But in her resurrection tells our own. 
As from its grave comes forth the buried grain, 

So man's frail body, in corruption sown, 
In incorruption shall be raised again. 

William Croswell. 



Lyra Americana. 41 




EASTER-DAT, 

LAD Easter morning came, and 

bright as glad : 
For as the Feast, like sudden noon- 
tide, broke 

Above the Cross, thus, from the brooding night 
Of howling storm, flashed forth the golden day. 
The ringers smote wild music from the bells 
High in mid-air, from spire and turret pealing, 
Chiming and tolling, till the blue heavens, filled 
With legions of the Tone-World, seemed to 

sing 
And shout of rapture overfull. I sought 
The holy place, where unseen things of God 
Verge nearest to our darkened sphere — where 

men 
Hungry at heart and waiting for the Lord 
Taste evidence of Hope — substance of Faith, 
So sweet, that in the mystery they say 



42 Lyra Americana. 

They find the Christ. As I drew near the 

church 
A throbbing undertone of organ sound 
Breathed on me from the pile, as if the whole — 
Nave, chancel, tower, and spire — had caught 
The resonance within, and would both tell 
And sing the story of the Changeless Faith. 
Within the door, the font again gave welcome. 
Garlanded and crowned with fairest flowers, 
Censing the air with Spring-time ecstacy 
Of odours : — odours — seraph sounds of praise^ — 
And radiance trailing from the pictured panes — 
(A thrilling sense of angels in the air !) 
Love wreathed a glory from this mystic Trine 
Of Beauty, for the holy place of God. 
In the far Chancel, with fair cloth arrayed, 
And glowing, golden vessels of the Feast, 
The Altar stood, with sacred Monogram 
Aflame. Camelia trees were there, and bloomed 
In white, as if the birds of peace had found 
A resting-place, and would soon rise and sing. 
In the great window kindling in the East 
Shone Mary's Son and Saviour — either side, 
By twos, the Great Evangels ; while the Dawn, 
With stately step, asperged the quarried walls. 
And surpliced priests, and the ingathering 

throng 
With splendors from the City of our God. 



Lyra Americana, 43 

Confession made, and shriving words of Christ 
Opened my lips and eased my burdened heart 
For praise : and then we sang of life, and Him 
Who feeds His children with it — heard the 

Word, 
And made Te Deum till the walls did ring 
With answering echoes : then our hearts touched 

hands 
In fellowship as large as Earth and Heaven 
In the old, primal Creed ; then turned to Christ 
In prayer, as children asking drink and bread 
At home ; and I was heard while I besought. 
And yet my wounded heart did make lament. 
And bolder grew with grief, as Christ drew near. 
O bitter grief, beyond the healing balm ! 
O bitter grief, when through the weary years 
The heart bewails its dead ; and waiting, faints 
In fast, for feet that will not come again! 

bitter grief, when little faces flit 
More dimly than before — dying again ! 
Until the heart cries out, O Lord, if Thou 
Canst not give back to me my darling dead, 
Let their dear faces fade no more away. 

In faith, in tears, athirst for life and love, 

1 knelt before the Supper of the Lord. 
Ah me ! I knelt beside an open grave ! 
The while I kept the Rising of the Lord, 



44 Lyra Americana. 

I kept the birth-day of my child in death ! 

hfe in death ! O death in Hfe ! Come, Christ, 
Shine with Thy Presence on my sleeping 

child! 
Give me to see the vision of Thy Dead I 
The first-born — bid her lead the other two ! 
Thou hast them — show this tender grace to- 
day ! 
Thou art the Life — ^Thy pulses throb in mine : 
This only crumb from Thy full table, Lord ! 

1 felt the stir of the invisible Ones 

Who serve within the Mystery. Breathings 
Of love unutterable coursed through my soul. 

And Mary's Son, above me, seemed to say : 
'Who walk by sight, walk not with me this 

day; 
Who feed on sense, must perish by the way. 

'Thy babes are mine and thine — lament no 

more ! 
Their shining footsteps lead thee to my door. 
Son ! look to me, and give Thy grieving o'er. 

' They keep a better Easter, here, with me — 
If they have me, no other need can be : 
Only look up, and thou, at last, shalt see ! ' 



Lyra Americana. 45 

O Living Bread ! I feed on Thee alone ! 
O quickening Wine, I drink to thirst no more ! 
The Word hath spoken and my heart is still ! 
The healing touch hath stayed my wasting 

wound ! 
I, who was blind, do now begin to see ! 

Then broke the organ into jubilee ! 
And we who die, and they who cannot die 
Again, sang: Glory be to God on High. 
The kindling colours blazoned — " Easter-Day ; " 
And breathed the flowers — "this is Easter- 
Day;" 
And choral echoes whispered far away — 
" 'Tis Easter — Easter-day ! 'tis Easter-Day ! " 
George T. Rider. 




46 



Lyra Americana. 




THE MOURNERS CAME AT BREAK 
OF DAT, . 

HE mourners came, at break of 
day, 
Unto the garden sepulchre, 
With saddened hearts to weep and 
pray 
For Him, the loved one, buried there. 
What radiant light dispels the gloom ? 
An angel sits beside the tomb. 

The earth doth mourn her treasures lost, 
All sepulchre'd beneath the snow. 

When wint'ry winds and chilling frost 
Have laid her summer glories low ; 

The spring returns, the flowerets bloom — 

An angel sits beside the tomb. 



Then mourn we not, beloved dead, 

E*en while we come to weep and pray ; 



Lyra Americana. 



47 



The happy spirit hath but fled 

To brighter realms of heavenly day ; 
Immortal hope dispels the gloom — 
An angel sits beside the tomb. 

S. F. Adams. 




48 Lyra Americana. 




THE LORD IS RISEN. 

"^OW calm and beautiful the morn 
That gilds the sacred tomb, 



I Where once the Crucified was borne. 
And veiled in midnight gloom ! 
Oh ! weep no more the Saviour slain ; 
The Lord is risen — He lives again. 

Ye mourning saints ! dry every tear 

For your departed Lord ; 
"Behold the place — He is not there," 

The tomb is all unbarred: 
The gates of death were closed in vain: 
The Lord is risen — He lives again. 

Now cheerful to the house of prayer 

Your early footsteps bend, 
The Saviour will Himself be there. 

Your advocate and friend : 



Lyra Americana. 49 

Once by the law your hopes were slain, 
But now in Christ ye live again. 

How tranquil now the rising day ! 

'Tis Jesus still appears, 
A risen Lord to chase away 

Your unbelieving fears : 
Oh ! weep no more your comforts slain. 
The Lord is risen — He lives again. 

And when the shades of evening fall, 
When life's last hour draws nigh. 

If Jesus shine upon the soul. 
How blissful then to die : 

Since He has risen who once was slain. 

Ye die in Christ to live again. 

T. Hastings. 



50 Lyra Americana. 




EVEN SO IN CHRIST SHALL ALL BE 
MADE ALIVE. 

IFT your glad voices in triumph on 
high, 
For Jesus hath risen, and man can- 
not die, 

Vain were the terrors that gathered around Him, 
And short the dominion of death and the 
grave ; 
He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound 
Him, 
Resplendent in glory to live and to save. 
Loud was the chorus of angels on high — 
"The Saviour hath risen, and man shall not 
die." 

Glory to God, in full anthems of joy : 
The being He gave us, death cannot destroy ; 
Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, 
If tears were our birthright, and death were 
our end ; 



Lyra Americana. ^i 

But Jesus hath cheered the dark valley of sor- 
row, 
And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend. 
Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, 
Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die. 

H. Ware, Jr. 




52 



Lyra Americana. 




THE TRUE PASSOVER. 

NCE the angel started back, 

When he saw the blood-stained 
door, 
Pausing on his vengeful track, 
And the dwelling passing o'er. 
Once the sea from Israel fled. 
Ere it rolled o'er Egypt's dead. 

Now oiu: Passover is come 

Dimly shadowed in the past, 
And the very Paschal Lamb, 
Christ, the Lord, is slain at last. 

Then with hearts and hands made meet. 
Our unleavened bread we'll eat. 



Blessed Victim sent from Heaven, 
Whom all angel hosts obey. 



Lyra Americana. 



53 



To whose will all earth is given, 
At whose word hell shrinks away, 

Thou has conquered death's dread strife, 
Thou hast brought us light and life. 
Bishop Williams. 

i^From the Breviary.^ 




54 Lyra Americana. 




THE NIGHT COMETH WHEN NO 
MAN CAN WORK. 

ANING life and weary, 

Fainting heart and limb, 
Darkening road and dreary. 
Flashing eye grown dim ; 
All betokening nightfall near, 
Day is done, and rest is dear. 

Slowly stealing shadows 
Westward lengthening still. 

O'er the dark brown meadows. 
O'er the sunlit hill. 

Gleams of golden glory. 

From the opening sky. 
Gild those temples hoary — 

Kiss that closing eye ; 
Now drops the curtain on all wrong — 
Throes of sorrow — grief and song. 



Lyra Americana. 



ss 



But saw ye not the dying, 

Ere life passed away, 
Faintly smile while eyeing 

Yonder setting day ; 

And, his pale hand signing 

Man's redemption sign — 
Cried, with forehead shining : 

Father, I am thine ! 
And so to rest he quietly hath pass'd. 
And sleeps in Christ the Comforter at last. 
William Wilson. 




56 



Lyra Americana. 



THE REFUGEE, 



**Whom have I in Heaven but thee?" Psalm 13-25. 



UT Thee, O God! but Thee, 
To whom shall I address 
My wail of deep distress ? 

Thou only who canst see 
My spirit's brokenness. 
Thou only, who alone canst heal 
The pangs I bear, the ills I feel. 




To Thee, Oh God 1 to Thee, 

With lowly heart I bend ; 
Lord, to my prayer attend. 

And haste to succour me. 
Thou never failing Friend ! 
For seas of trouble o'er me roll. 
And whelm with tears my sinking soul. 

From Thee, O God ! from Thee, 
By phantom passions led. 



Lyra Americana. 57 

Like him of old* I fled ! 
Saying this earth shall be, 

To me a heaven instead. 
But then didst Thou in mercy thrust 
My earthly idols to the dust. 

On Thee, Oh God ! on Thee 
With humble hope I'll lean, 
Thou who hast ever been 

A hiding place to me. 
In many a troubled scene ; 
Whose heart with love and mercy fraught 
Back to the fold Thy wand'rer brought. 
William Wilson. 

* Jonah. 




3* 



^8 Lyra Americana. 




WHT SEEK TE THE LIVING AMONG 
THE DEAD. 



H ! why should bitter tears be shed 
In sorrow o'er the mounded sod, 
When verily there are no dead 
Of all the children of our God ? 



They who are lost to outward sense 
Have but flung off their robes of clay, 

And clothed in heavenly radiance, 
Attend us on our lowly way. 

And oft their spirits breathe in ours 

The hope and strength and love of theirs. 

Which bloom as bloom the early flowers 
In breath of summer's viewless airs. 

And silent aspirations start. 

In promptings of their purer thought. 



Lyra Americana. 59 

Which gently lead the troubled heart 
To joys not even Hope had wrought. 

While sorrow's tears our eyes have wet, 
Shed o'er the consecrated dust, 

Too much our darkened souls forget 
The lessons of enduring Trust. 

Let living Faith serenely pour 

Her sunlight on our pathway dim, 

And Death can have no terrors more ; 
But holy joys shall walk with him. 

G. S. Burleigh. 




6o Lyra Americana. 




EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET 

morning twilight, when the 
dreaming soul 
Gropes in the grey of dim and 
weird-like thought, 
A sweet voice whispered : — ' Lo, the Christ 

has risen. 
And walks among the olives.' In glad haste, 
Still through still city, and adown the street 
Of Sorrows crept I to the gate, whose stones 
Yet weep with Stephen's blood. The bearded 

guard 
Upturned a half-shut eye ; near broken tomb, 
Shivering a Jewish leper slept. All slept; 
Only the wind moaned thro' the hollow gorge. 
As of a prophet wailing in his grave. 
And a leaf quivered on the gnarled bough. 
Ghostly beside dry Kedron. Up I clomb. 
And with me clomb the mist, white-winged, 
swift. 



Lyra Americana. 61 

Till, gazing from the brow, lo ! a wild sea 
It surged above the valley and the wall 
Of the lost city ; tomb, and topmost tree 
Sank sudden ; hoary mosque and battlement ; 
And as the sailor in the stormy trough 
Sees earth nor heaven, but crested ocean peaks 
Swooping upon him, so stood I alone 
With the drear hilltop and the swallowing night. 
When hark ! this music sang : " A little while, 
And ye shall see me ; " then the shapeless cloud 
Seemed struggling to a smile, a deep, soft eye, 
A brow thorn-crowned, and from each thorny 

edge 
Trickled a drop of light. " I am," It said, 
" One who left Heaven, when the Christ arose, 
Wearing, so love I Him, the face He wore, 
And in His holy footprints aye I walk. 
Till that He come again. Behold thou now 
His keen-eyed messenger ! " Thro' the cloud, 
A sword of fire, the flashing sunbeam clove : 
It smote the hilltop, the grey olives burned 
As the red bush of Moses, down the slopes 
Joyous it leaped, then calmly stayed and bathed 
In wondrous flood the lone Gethsemane. 
Before me, as the landskip of a dream. 
Rose up the gleaming mount, and thro' the 

gorge 
Out to the hollow waste the surly mist 



62 Lyra Americana. 

Fled, as a baffled monster of the sun, 
Back to his caves. 

When now, " Behold again," 
Heard I the bodiless voice. And lo ! no more 
The grey, old vi^alls, the storm-scathed, barren 

hills. 
But in that mystic light a City of God, 
Unspeakable, e'en by his golden lips, 
Who saw the Bride of Christ, and in his trance 
Fell words as flashes from the crystal gates. 
And sunlit ripples on the river of life. 
But mine how dumb ! how idly do I grope 
Midst images of joy ! a melody 
Dim whispering to me still, as if I stood 
Upon a lonely shore, and heard afar 
Snatches of song high billowing on the breeze, 
Over a starlit sea : — a towering pile. 
That crumbles at the touch of after thought. 
As in the tropic sunset sudden rise 
Fair, golden palaces 'mid groves of palm. 
Gleaming and gone ! so saw I pinnacles 
Of a new Temple, where yon Paynim mosque 
Spurns Sion, and a dome dashing its waves 
Of light o'er walls of light. About it walked 
Forms wonderful: one with a craggy brow 
Like Sinai, and the veil half lifted up; 
O kingly harper, chaunting as he went ; 
An eye from a dark mantle, gazing keen 



Lyra Americana. 63 

Into the cloud-rift as a written scroll ; 

Then came a sad, sweet woman, her white 

hairs 
A crown of woven rays ; she leaned on one 
Whose childlike smile said, " Mother, behold 

thy son." 
And still they rose, fresh lights, innumerous. 
In lustrous groups ; such the glad watcher 

sees, 
Nearing the Southern cross, in clusters rich. 
As love had blent their torches, and beyond 
Three vapoury piles, that are the golden dust 
Of starry worlds. 

Then in my waking dream 
Sang I my matin song. Dawn, Easter sun. 
Dawn in thy strength ! Hail to thee, holy hill. 
Beloved above all hills that climb to heaven. 
The loftier peaks look snow-clad on the vale, 
And fairer slopes smile joyous, holier thou 
With these green memories ! ye aged trees. 
Binding your gnarled, grey arms in silent 

prayer 
Over the garden, ye shall wear the bloom 
Of fadeless spring ! O city of the Christ ! 
Gazing from lonely heights upon the tomb 
Of a dead Past, rise with thy living stones ; 
Thy Temple the wide human heart, thy song 
The tide of faith, of hope fresh pouring on 



64 



Lyra Americana. 



Thro' newborn years of time; thy endless 

life 
As His, the Man Divine, whose feet yet 

walk 
Among the olives, and His eyes yet look 
In love and sorrow from the mount of God. 

E. A. Washburn. 




Lyra Americana. 65 




BLOTV ON, THOU MIGHTT WIND. 

LOW on, Thou mighty Wind, 

The cloven tongues descending. 
Fanned by Thy dewy Breath, shall 
blaze and burn, 
A sacred flame unending. 
Soon shall the Fire behold 
Vile earth transformed to fine wrought gold ; 

And gloom of shadowy night 
That Flame shall kindle into light : 
Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. 

Blow on. Thou mighty Wind, 

And waft to realms unbounded 
The notes of Faith and Hope and tender Love 

The Gospel trump hath sounded. 

Those sweetly piercing tones. 
That charm all wars and tears and groans. 

Through earth and sea and sky 



66 Lyra Americana. 

Upon Thy rushing wings shall fly : 
Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. 

Blow on, Thou mighty Wind ; 

For tempest-tossed and lonely. 
The Church upon the rolling billows rides. 

And trusts in Thy Breath only. 

She spreads her swelling sails 
For Thee to fill with favoring gales. 

Till, through the stormy sea. 
Thou bring her home where she would be ; 
Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. 

Blow on. Thou mighty Wind, 

On hearts contrite and broken. 
And bring in quickening power the gracious 
words 

That Jesu's lips have spoken. 

Lo ! then, from death and sleep. 
The listening souls to life shall leap ; 

Then love shall reign below. 
And Joy the whole wide world overflow : 
Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. 

To God, the Father, Son, 

By all in earth and heaven. 
And to the Holy Spirit, Three in One, 

Eternal praise be given : 



Lyra Americana. 67 

As once triumphant rang 
When morning stars together sang 5 

Is now, as aye before ; 
And shall be so for evermore, 
World without end. Amen. Amen. 

John Henry Hopkins, Jr. 




68 Lyra Americana. 




O THOU IN WHOSE ETERNJL 
NAME. 

THOU in whose eternal name 
Went forth the Apostles' ardent 
host, 
Baptize us with the hallowed flame 
That fell from Heaven at Pentecost. 

The fearless faith that cries " Repent ! " 
Thy servants' earnest message fill ; 

By Thee the living word was sent, 
Thy presence make it living still. 

And while Thy people bend and pray 
Towards Thy benignant throne of light. 

Give answer in the dawning day 

Of Freedom, Mercy, Truth, and Right, 

Immortal Truth ! it lives in Thee ; 
Our hope shall lean on Thee alone ! 



Lyra Americana. 69 

Thy Christ be all our liberty, 

And all our strength and will Thy own ! 

Father, whose heavenly kingdom lies 

In every meek believing breast. 
Reveal before Thy children's eyes 

That kingdom's coming, and its rest ! 

Give Thy Son's herald, from above. 
The anointing of Thy Spirit's breath ; 

The faith that worked in Christ by love. 
The trust that triumphed in His death. 
F. D. Huntington. 




70 Lyra Americana. 




/ AM WITH rOU JLWJT, 



LWAYS with us, always with 
us — 
Words of cheer and words of 
love ; 

Thus the risen Saviour whispers 
From His dwelling-place above. 



With us when we toil in sadness, 
Sowing much and reaping none. 

Telling us that in the future 
Golden harvests shall be won ; 



With us when the storm is sweeping 
O'er our pathway dark and drear ; 

Waking hope within our bosoms. 
Stilling every anxious fear j — 



Lyra Americana. 



71 



With us in the lonely valley, 

When we cross the chilling stream, 

Lighting up the steps to glory 
With Salvation's radiant beam. 

Nevin. 




72 Lyra Americana. 




HOLT SPIRIT, TRUTH DIVINE. 



OLY Spirit, Truth divine! 
Dawn upon this soul of mine ; 
Word of God, and Inward Light ! 
Wake my spirit, clear my sight. 



Holy Spirit, Love divine! 
Glow within this heart of mine ; 
Kindle every high desire ; 
Perish self in Thy pure fire ! 

Holy Spirit, Power divine ! 
Fill and nerve this will of mine ; 
By the way I strongly live, 
Bravely bear and nobly strive. 

Holy Spirit, Right divine ! 
King within my conscience reign ; 
Be my Lord, and I shall be 
Firmly bound, forever free. 



Lyra Americana. 73 

Holy Spirit, Peace divine ! 
Still this restless heart of mine ; 
Speak to calm this tossing sea, 
Stayed in Thy tranquillity. 

Holy Spirit, Joy divine ! 

Gladden Thou this heart of mine ; 

In the desert ways I sing 

" Spring, O Well ! forever spring." 

S. Longfellow. 




74 Lyra Americana. 




HYMN FOR WHITSUNDAT. 

REATOR Spirit! come and bless 
us ; 

Let Thy love and fear possess us ; 

With Thy graces meek and lowly 
Purify our spirits wholly. 
Paraclete, the name Thou bearest, 
Gift of God the choicest, dearest, 
Love, and fire, and fountain living. 
Spiritual unction giving. 
Shower Thy benedictions seven 
From Thy majesty in heaven. 

Be the Saviour's word unbroken. 
Let Thy many tongues be spoken ; 
In our sense Thy light be glowing. 
Through our souls Thy love be flowing ; 
Cause the carnal heart to perish. 
But the strength of virtue cherish, 



Lyra Americana. 75 

Till each enemy repelling, 
And Thy peace around us dwelling, 
We beneath Thy guidance glorious, 
Stand o'er every ill victorious. 

William Croswell. 




7^ Lyra Americana. 




TER SANCTUS. 

HOLY, holy, holy Lord, 

Bright in Thy deeds and in Thy 
Name ; 
Forever be Thy Name adored, 
Thy glories let the world proclaim. 

O Jesus, Lamb once crucified 

To take our load of sins away. 
Thine be the hymn that rolls its tide. 

Along the realms of upper day, 

O Holy Spirit from above, 

In streams of light and glory given. 
Thou source of ecstacy and love. 

Thy praises ring through earth and heaven. 



Lyra Americana. 



77 



O God Triune, to Thee we owe 
Our every thought, our every song 5 

And ever may Thy praises flow 

From saint and seraph's burning tongue. 
J. W. Eastburn. 




jS Lyra Americana. 




THE MTSTERT OF GOD, 

O human eyes Thy face may see ; 
No human thought Thy form may 

know; 
But all creation dwells in Thee, 
And Thy great life through all doth flow ! 

And yet, O strange and wondrous thought ! 
Thou art a God who hearest prayer, 
And every heart with sorrow fraught 
To seek Thy present aid may dare. 

And though most weak our efforts seem 
Into one creed these thoughts to bind, 
And vain the intellectual dream, 
To see and know the Eternal Mind ; 

Yet Thou wilt turn them not aside, 
Who cannot solve Thy life divine, 



Lyra Americana. 



79 



But would give up all reason's pride 

To know their hearts approved by Thine. 

So, though we faint on life's dark hill, 
And Thought grow weak, and Knowledge flee. 
Yet Faith shall teach us courage still. 
And Love shall guide us on to Thee. 

T. W. HiGGINSON. 




8o Lyra Americana. 




THE CHURCH OF GOD. 

IKE Noah's weary dove, 

That soared the earth around, 
But not a resting-place above 
The cheerless waters found j 

O cease my wandering soul, 

On restless wing to roam ; 
All the wide world to either pole. 

Has not for thee a home. 

Behold the ark of God, 

Behold the open door ; 
Hasten to gain that dear abode. 

And rove, my soul, no more. 

There, safe thou shalt abide. 
There, sweet shall be thy rest. 

And every longing satisfied. 
With full salvation blest. 



Lyra Americana. 



8i 



And, when the waves of ire 

Again the earth shall fill, 
The Ark shall ride the sea of fire 5 

Then rest on Sion's hill. 

MUHLENBURG. 




82 Lyra Americana. 




THE KINGDOM OF CHRIST, 

HEN God descends with men 
to dwell, 
And all creation wakes anew, 
What tongue can half the 
wonders tell ? 
What eye the dazzling glory view ? 

Zion, the desolate, again 

Shall see her lands with roses bloom ; 
And CarmePs mount, and Sharon's plain, 

Shall yield their spices and perfume. 

Celestial streams shall gently flow ; 

The wilderness shall joyful be ; 
Lilies on parched ground shall grow j 

And gladness spring on every tree. 

The weak be strong, the fearful bold. 
The deaf shall hear, the dumb shall sing. 



Lyra Americana. 83 

The lame shall walk, the blind behold, 
And joy through all the earth shall ring. 

Monarchs and slaves shall meet in love ; 

Old pride shall die, and meekness reign, 
When God descends from worlds above. 

To dwell with men on earth again. 

H. Ballou, 




84 Lyra Americana. 




THE BANNER OF THE CROSS. 

LING out the Banner ! let it float 
Sky-ward and sea-ward, high and 
wide; 
The sun, that hghts its shining folds, 
The Cross, on which the Saviour died. 

Fling out the Banner ! Angels bend, 
In anxious silence, o'er the sign 5 

And vainly seek to comprehend 
The wonder of the love divine. 

Fling out the Banner ! Heathen lands 
Shall see, from far, the glorious sight. 

And nations, crowding to be born. 
Baptize their spirits in its light. 

Fling out the Banner ! Sin-sick souls, 
That sink and perish in the strife, 

Shall touch in faith its radiant hem, 
And spring immortal into life. 



Lyra Americana. 



85 



Fling out the Banner ! Let it float 
Sky-ward, sea-ward, high and wide 5 

Our glory, only in the Cross ; 
Our only hope the Crucified. 

Fling out the Banner ! Wide and high. 
Sea-ward and sky-ward, let it shine : 

Nor skill, nor might, nor merit, ours ; 
We conquer only in that sign. 

Bishop Doane. 






86 Lyra Americana. 




HTMN FOR THE FESTIVAL OF ST. 
THOMAS THE APOSTLE. 

{From the Ephtle for the Day.) 

TRANGERS no more we wildly 
rove 
Without a blessing from above, 
On passions stormy sea ; 
But with the followers of the Lamb 
We live to praise His holy name, 
To all eternity. 

Upon a sure foundation laid, 
Jesus, Himself the corner's head. 

The building grows on high ; 
No storms can shake, no billows sweep 
Its firm foundations to the deep, 

'Tis guarded by the sky. 

O may we each through faith prepare 
In that resplendent pile to share. 



Lyra Americana. 87 

Each be a living stone ; 
That God may there forever dwell, 
And bliss and light ineffable 

Eternal ages crow^n ! 

J. W. Eastburn. 




88 Lyra Americana. 




THE KINGDOM OF OUR GOD. 

OME, Kingdom of our God ; 
Sweet reign of light and love, 
Shed peace, and hope, and joy abroad. 
And wisdom from above. 



Over our spirits first 
Extend thy healing reign ; 
There raise and quench the sacred thirst 
That never pains again. 

Come, Kingdom of our God ! 
And make the broad earth thine. 
Stretch o'er her lands and isles the rod 
That flowers with grace divine. 

Soon may all tribes be blest 
With fruit from life's glad tree ; 
And in its shade like brothers rest 
Sons of one family. 



Lyra Americana. 



89 



Come, Kingdom of our God ! 
And raise thy glorious throne 
In worlds by the undying trod, 
Where God shall bless His own. 

Johns. 




go Lyra Americana. 




THE SOLDIERS OF THE CROSS. 

HOU, Lord of Hosts, whose guiding 
hand 
Hast brought us here before Thy 
face; 

Our spirits wait for Thy command, 
Our silent hearts implore Thy peace ! 

Those spirits lay their noblest powers. 
As offerings, on Thy holy shrine ; 

Thine was the strength that nourished ours ; 
The soldiers of the cross are Thine. 

While watching on our arms, at night. 
We saw Thine angels round us move j 

We heard Thy call, we felt Thy light. 
And followed trusting to Thy love. 

And now with hymn and prayer we stand, 
To give our strength to Thee, great God ! 



Lyra Americana. 91 

We would redeem Thy holy land, 
That land which Sin so long has trod. 

Send us where'er Thou wilt, O Lord ! 

Through rugged toil and wearying flight ; 
Thy conquering love shall be our sword, 

And faith in Thee our truest might. 

Send down Thy constant aid, we pray 5 
Be Thy pure angels with us still ; 

Thy truth, be that our firmest stay ; 
Our only rest, to do Thy will. 

N. L. Frothingham. 




92 Lyra Americana. 




CHURCH BUILDING. 

HE perfect world by Adam trod, 
Was the first temple built by God ; 
His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
And heaved its pillars, one by one. 



He hung its starry roof on high — 
The broad illimitable sky ; 
He spread its pavement, green and bright. 
And curtained it with morning light. 

The mountains in their places stood, 
The sea, the sky, — and " all was good ; " 
And when its first pure praises rang. 
The " morning stars together sang." 

Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
And earth and sky a house for Thee ; 
But in Thy sight our offering stands — 
A humbler temple, " made with hands." 

N. P. Willis. 



Lyra Americana. 93 




THE PRIEST THAT MUST BE. 

HOU art to be a priest in holy 
things ; 
A minister of thy great Maker, 
God! 

Oh ! all of earth that to thy earth-heart clings, — 
And all the bribe-gifts that the fair world 

brings, — 
All that the Tempter's voice most sweetly 

sings. 
Calling thy spirit to come forth, abroad. 
Oh, not for thee, — they must not be for thee ! 
What they have been, no more must ever 
be. 

In Christ's eternal priesthood thou wilt share, 
To reconcile to God His sinful sons : 
Ambassadors from God, thou, too, shalt wear 
His very person, and thy tongue shall dare 
In Christ's stead, to beseech the erring ones. 



94 Lyra Americana. 

Who is enough for this far-reaching work ? 

At whose poor heart doth not the vile worm 

lurk ? 
This priceless trust in earthen case is set : 
Who holds it falls, if he do once forget 
In God's gift, only, might and worth are 

met. 
When, in Christ's name and stead, thou shalt 

beseech. 
His loving Gospel to the others preach, 
And pledges of God's grace share forth to 

each ; — 
When other hearts lie open to thine own. 
Eyes trusting look to thee, as on a throne ; 
Nothing but Christ's rich blood can for thyself 

atone. 

Bethink thee, well, how one may speak true 

blame 
Of deadly sin, and load it thick with shame ; 
One may bear charge for God and take Christ's 

name. 
And yet, at Reckoning, may be cast ofF, 
A woe to loving ones, to friends a scofF. 
But oh, what deeper loss shall his be, then. 
Who, of his priesthood, made a lure to men ! 
Who drew in weaker souls, and led them 

wrong : 



Lyra Americana. 95* 

His Gospel but a witching, wicked song ! 
Where, out of God's great love, shall that bad 
wretch belong ! 

Lift up thy faith beyond the inner sky 
Where, in deep peace, God ever sits on high : 
Amid all sounds which meet there in His 

praise, — 
Which worlds and hosts, cherubs and seraphs 

raise 
To Him, far off and near. Ancient of Days, 
One, only God, thrice holy Three in One, 
Beyond time's death, as ere time was begun, 
There He that calls thee in dread stillness 

sits. 
While, flashing everywhere, high, glorious music 

flits. 

To Him the rain-drop plashing on the sea. 
The winged seed wafted from the forest-tree. 
The insect's gaspings, and the sun's swift ray 
Kindling up countless atoms in its way. 
Each after each, to bring to earth the day 
All, all are heard, — all things are heard, — yet- 

He 
Hears thy thoughts moving in the midst of 

thee. 
Let not the busy world, with its loud din, 



96 Lyra Americana. 

Let not the sweet, enticing calls of sin, 
Let nothing draw thine ear from God's still 
voice within ! 

He sees thee all ; the flashing of an eye ; 

The changing cheek ; the bosom swelling 

high; 
Yea the first impulse of the peaceful blood, 
Ere, with fell passion's surge, it rushes to its 

flood. 
He sees the little pictures spread within 
Thy mind's deep chambers, where no eye can 

win : 
As if no other thing on earth's smooth face, 
But thou, alone, in clearest light had place, 
As if He looked on thee and thee alone, 
Thus open standest thou: thus seen, thus 

known. 

Look not on wrong, nor let the Tempter 

dare 
To find a back-way up into thy heart. 
And open all his cursed, tempting ware 
To bargain with thee for thy better part. 
Thou hast no secrets that are hid from God ; 
Thine inmost places by His feet are trod : 
Hast thou sin there ? it lies before His sight : 
Die, if thou must, but cast it from thee, quite ! 



Lyra Americana. 97 

If thou hast ever taken gifts of Hell 

And then repented, and hast thrown them out, 

And swept all clean (while bloody tear-drops 

fell) 
And scattered holy balms, the place about ; 
Search yet again ; thou knowest but too well 
If thine own hand have somewhere laid away 
Some sin that penitence might overlook. 
To come to light, some time, and draw astray 
Thy weaker thoughts, or, at the Dreadful Day, 
To stand revealed, and damn thee from God's 

Book. 

The spirit, — like the wind that wears no form 
In wooing summer-breath, or ruthless storm, — 
Breaks up the dark heart's strongly-frozen deep, 
Or lays the whirl of earthly lusts to sleep. 
He, only, is thy strength and warmth and light : 
Trust well thy faith in Him, where faith is sight. 
Robert Lowell. 



g8 Lyra Americana. 




THE CHRISTIAN BANNER. 

HE Christian Banner ! Dread no 
loss 
Where that broad ensign floats 
unrolled, 
But let the fair and sacred Cross 

Blaze out from every radiant fold : — 
Stern foes arise, a countless throng. 
Loud as the storms of Kara's sea. 
But though the strife be fierce and long, 
That Cross shall wave in victory. 

Sound the shrill trumpet, sound, and call 

The people of The Mighty King, 
And bid them keep that standard all 

In martial thousands gathering ; — 
Let them come forth from every clime, 

That lies beneath the circling sun. 
Various, as flowers in that sweet clime 

When flowers are, — in heart but one. 



Lyra Americana. 99 

Soldiers of Heaven ! take sword and shield, 

Look up to Him who rules on high, 
And forward to the glorious field, 

Where noble martyrs bleed and die ; — 
Press onward, scorning flight or fear. 

As deep waves burst on Norway's coast. 
And let the startled nations hear 

The war-shout of the Christian host. 

Lift up the Banner : — ^rest no more. 

Nor let this righteous warfare cease. 
Till man's last tribe shall bow before 

The Lord of Lords — the Prince of 
Peace : — 
Go ! bear it forth, ye strong and brave ; 

Let not those bright folds once be furled. 
Till that high sun shall see them wave 

Above a blest but conquered world. 

James Gilborne Lyons. 



100 Lyra Americana. 




/ LOVE THT KINGDOM, LORD. 



LOVE Thy kingdom, Lord, 
The house of Thine abode. 
The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
With His own precious blood. 



I love Thy church, O God ! 

Her walls before Thee stand, 
Dear as the apple of Thine eye, 

And graven on Thy hand. 

For her my tears shall fall. 
For her my prayers ascend ; 

To her my cares and toils be given. 
Till toils and cares shall end. 

Beyond my highest joy 
I prize her heavenly ways. 

Her sweet communion, solemn vows. 
Her hymns of love and praise. 



Lyra Americana. 



lOl 



Jesus, Thou Friend divine, 
Our Saviour, and our King, 

Thy hand from every snare and foe. 
Shall great deliverance bring. 

Sure as Thy truth shall last. 

To Zion shall be given 
The brightest glories earth can yield, 

And brighter bliss of heaven. 

DWIGHT. 




102 Lyra Americana. 




CHRISTS LEGACY. 

HO deems that Holy Church 
has lost 
The priceless gift the Saviour 
gave ? 
Or,as an idle bauble, tost 

Beneath the curst w^orld's hungry wave, 
Her keys that, all this wide world o'er. 
Oped to man's want God's spirit-store ? 
That now the Kingdom is but earth alone 
Where man's poor sight and wisdom seek their 
own ? 

Who deems that hidden Paradise, — 
Its sweet cool shades, its living streams, 

Its lustrous air, from seraph's eyes 
Radiant with interwoven beams, 

And the eternal Light divine 

Filling up all with changeless shine, — 



Lyra Americana. 103 

That these, and converse with the dwellers 

there, 
To men in spirit are not free as air ? 

That His blest Kingdom — which, Christ said, 

Should ever stand while earth doth stand. 
And, when the last flames, fierce and red, 
Should meet and burn up sea and land. 
Transfigured through these fires should glow 
Thenceforth no earthiness to know, — 
That this hath not one, only, changeless 

frame. 
One as the Lord; on earth, in heaven, the 
same ? 

Or that the Body of the Lord, 

The Godhead dwelling in the flesh, — 
Is not, to us, as when that Word 
In human nature dwelt afresh ? 
Or that God's fulness, now, as then, 
Doth not inhabit in us men, 
A fulness that in each of us hath place 
Of grace according to our growth in grace ? 

Oh ! is not God the selfsame now 
As when he put on human frame ? 

His Body is the Church : and how 
Is this, His Body, not the same ? 



104 Lyra Americana. 

It is the same where'er Faith is : 
Christ manifests himself in His : 
Where Faith is not, to them is Christ no 

more 
IndweUing, in the Spirit, as of yore. 

This glorious Kingdom — rich within. 

And glowing with all spirit-powers — 
There is no cause, but each man's sin, 

If all its treasures be not ours : 
Our priests are gifted with the Word. 
And every member of the Lord 
Hath his own measure of the Holy Ghost : 
In the most humble and obedient, most. 

And in the Spirit, oh, what height 
The feet of faithful men do mount ! 

There glossy slopes flow all with light. 
And vales are rich with stream and fount. 

The pure see God on every side ; 

Them spirits gently serve and guide ; 

While earth, to them, is sorrow, shame, and 

ill, 

The Church is heaven on earth, about them 
still. 

Sweet mysteries to them that love. 
Do lead to that eye hath not seen ; 



Lyra Americana. 



105 



An open sky is spread above 

Wherein no cloud hath ever been. 
The Word vi^ells full in every heart j 
Deep calleth unto deep, apart j 
And Love, God's being, maketh them all 

one 
In Him, the Father, who are in the Son. 

Robert Lowell. 




5* 



id6 Lyra Americana. 




JERUSALEM, MT HOME 

ERUSALEM, my Home, 
I see thy walls arise ; 
Their jasper clear and sardine stone 
Flash radiance through the skies. 
In clouds of heaven-descending, 
With angel train attending, 
Thy gates of glistening pearl unfold 
On streets of glassy gold. 
No sun is there, no day or night ; 
But of seven-fold splendors bright. 
Thy Temple is the Light of Light, 
Jerusalem, my Home. 

Jerusalem, my Home, 
Where shines the royal Throne, 
Each king casts down his golden crown 
Before the Lamb thereon. 
Thence flows the crystal River, 
And, flowing on forever, 



Lyra Americana. 107 

With leaves and fruits on either hand, 

The Tree of Life shall stand. 
In blood-washed robes, all white and fair. 
The Lamb shall lead His chosen there. 
While clouds of incense fill the air, 
Jerusalem, my Home. 

Jerusalem, my Home, 

Where saints in triumph sing, 
While, tuned in tones of golden harps. 

Heaven's boundless arches ring. 

No more in tears and sighing 

Our weak hosannas dying. 
But hallelujahs loud and high 

Roll thundering through the sky. 
One chorus thrills their countless throngs ; 
Ten thousand times ten thousand tongues 
Fill them with overwhelming songs, 

Jerusalem, my Home. 

Jerusalem, my Home, 
Thou sole all glorious Bride, 

Creation shouts with joy to see 
Thy Bridegroom at thy side : 
The Man yet interceding. 
His Hands and Feet yet bleeding. 

And Him the billowy hosts adore 
Lord God for evermore. 



io8 Lyra Americana. 

And " Holy, Holy, Holy," cry 
The choirs that crowd thy courts on high. 
Resounding everlastingly, 
Jerusalem, my Home, 

Jerusalem, my Home, 

Where saints in glory reign. 
Thy haven safe, O when shall I, 

Poor storm-tossed pilgrim, gain ? 

At distance dark and dreary. 

With sin and sorrow weary. 
For thee I toil, for thee I pray. 

For thee I long alway. 
And lo ! mine eyes shall see thee, too : 
O rend in twain, thou vail of blue. 
And let the Golden City through — 

Jerusalem, my Home ! 

John Henry Hopkins, Jr. 




Lyra Americana. 109 




JERUSALEM, 

ERUSALEM! Jerusalem! 

It is not to behold 
The glory of thy jasper-walls, 

Thy streets of purest gold ; 

To see the twelve Apostles' names 
Upon thy bulwark traced ; 
Thy gates — each one a solid pearl, 
By each an angel placed ; 

The stream of life from 'neath the throne, 

Nor yet that throne to see — 
That I would pray, " O may my home 

Be found at last in Thee ! " 

No earthly eye I know hath seen 

The glories that are thine ; 
Nor ear hath heard such strains as rise 

From 'mid the host divine. 



110 Lyra Americana. 

But O ! than all thy streets can boast 

My eager eyes would see ; 
Jesus, the precious Lamb of God, 

Who died to ransom me ! 

" Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 
Name ever dear to me, 
O may at last my name be found," 
With Christ, my Lord, in Thee ! 

George H. Houghton. 



Lyra Americana. ill 




THE WORD. 

N the beginning was the Word : 
Athwart the chaos-night 
It gleamed with quick creative power, 
And there was life and light. 



Thy Word, O God ! is living yet, 
Amid earth's restless strife 

New harmony creating still. 
And ever higher life. 

And, as that Word moves surely on, 

The light, ray after ray. 
Streams further out athwart the dark. 

And night grows into day. 

O Word that broke the stillness first, 
Sound on ! and never cease 

Till all earth's darkness be made light. 
And all her discord peace ! 



112 



Lyra Americana. 



Till wail of woe, and clank of chain, 

And bruit of battle stilled — 
The world with Thy great music's pulse, 

O Word of Love ! be thrilled. 

Till selfish passion, strife, and wrong 
Thy summons shall have heard. 

And Thy creation be complete, 
O Thou Eternal World ! 

S. Longfellow. 




Lyra Americana. 113 




EXCEPT A MAN BE BORN AGAIN. 



HOU must be born again : 

Such was the solemn word 
To him who came, not all in vain, 
By night to seek his Lord. 



Thou must be born again — 

But not the birth of clay : 
The immortal seed must thence obtain 

Deliverance into day. 

Thou, in thy inmost mind, 
Must own the same control — 

The same regenerating wind 
Must move and guide thy soul. 

Except thou choose and trace 
The steps the Master trod, 

Thou canst not be an heir of grace, 
A conscious child of God. 



114 



Lyra Americana. 



The mortal's birth is past; 

The immortal's birth must be : 
Seek well, and thou shalt find at last 

That blest nativity. 

Johns. 




Lyra Americana. 115 




ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 

HE stood up in the meekness of 
a heart 
Resting on God, and held her fair 
young child 
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 
To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 
The prayers went up devoutly, and the lips 
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith 
That it would be, even as he had prayed, 
And the sweet child gathered to the fold 
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 
Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears. 
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 
The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
With the baptismal water. Then I thought 
That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears 
Would be another Covenant — which sin 



ii6 



Lyra Americana. 



And the temptations of the world, and death, 
Would leave unbroken — and that she would 

know 
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 
The prayer which pressed them from her heart 

had been 
In leading its young spirit up to God. 

N. P. Willis. 




Lyra Americana. 117 




SO THET DID EAT AND WERE 
FILLED. 

HOUSANDS completely fed 
With a few loaves of bread 
Such as would barely form one 
household's fare, 
And, when the feast was o'er, 
The fragments were a store 
Enough for needy hundreds still to share. 

What was the Power that wrought 
This wonder passing thought ? 
What but that Word divine, which called of 
yore 
Systems and suns to grace 
The mighty realms of space, 
And then with life and beauty spread them 
o'er ? 



ii8 Lyra Americana. 

God only can create j— 
None less could arrogate 
The power to sway all nature with a nod : 
O Christ ! be Thou adored, — 
For that creative word 
Which blessed the bread was God's, — ^and Thou 
art God ! 

Joseph H. Clinch. 




Lyra Americana. 



119 



DEAR FRIEND WHOSE PRESENCE 
IN THE HOUSE. 




EAR Friend, whose presence in the 
house, 
Whose gracious word benign 
Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, 
Change water into wine. 



Come, visit us ! and when dull work 
Grows weary, line on line. 

Revive our souls, and let us see 
Life's water turned to wine. 



Gay mirth shall deepen into joy. 
Earth's hopes grow half divine. 

When Jesus visits us, to make 
Life's water glow as wine. 



The social talk, the evening fire. 
The homely household shrine. 



120 Lyra Americana- 

Grow bright with angel visits, when 
The Lord pours out the wine. 

For when self-seeking turns to love, 
Not knowing mine nor thine, 

The miracle again is wrought, 
And water turned to wine. 

J. F. Clarke. 




Lyra Americana. 121 




THE HOLT COMMUNION. 

REAK ye the bread, and pour the 
wine, 
As ye have seen your Master do ; 
This body and this blood of mine 
Is broken thus and shed for you." 

Yes, mighty God ! while Hfe remains, 
We will remember him who bled ; 

Whom Death, in his cold, palsying chains, 
A captive and a victim led. 

We will remember Him, by whom 

Those strong and icy chains were riven ; 

Who scattered round His opening tomb 
Their broken links, — and rose to heaven. 

And, while with gratitude we dwell 
On all his tears of love and woe. 



1 22 Lyra Americana. 

Let death's chill tide before us swell ! 
Let its still waters darkly flow ! 

We'll give our bodies to the stream ; 

'Twill bear us — (for the dead shall rise, 
Or faith is vain, and hope a dream,) 

To fairer shores and brighter skies. 

John Pierpont. 




Lyra Americana. 123 




EATING AND DRINKING WITH 
CHRIST. 

LOW on sweet tears of joy and 
peace, 
Which none but saintly eyes dis- 
distil ; 

Ah that these tears might never cease, 
Till love and rapture have their fill ! 
And would, this calm and soothing bliss, 

That tells my heart it is forgiven. 

Might always leave a thrill like this. 

That wafts my spirit into heaven. 

Ah ! there is something more than love. 

Embalming, in its sweets, my heart ; 
What can it be — 'tis from above. 

Oh may it never hence depart ! 
Say, is there some celestial balm 

Dropt from the torrent joys of heaven, 
Whose loveliness inspires a calm 

Serener than the calm of even ? 



124 ^y^^ Americana. 

Is there some seraph-spirit sent, 

Diffusing rapture from his wings, 
To steep my bosom in content ; 

Unknown, unfelt by earthly things ? 
No, something purer far must dwell 

Within this ravished soul of mine ; 
Tis what no mortal tongue may tell, 

'Tis more than holy — 'tis divine. 

My God ! my Jesus ! is it Thou 

Art rapturing my heart with bliss ? 
Tell me, art Thou within me now : — 

Could man deserve a boon like this ? 
Yes, stooping from His heaven above, 

(He cannot dwell from man apart) 
His dearest throne, he makes my love, 

The tabernacle of my heart. 

Charles Constantine Pise. 




Lyra Americana. 125 




AN ANCIENT S J CR J MENTAL HYMN. 

BREAD to pilgrims given, 
O Food that angels eat, 
O Manna sent from heaven. 
For heaven-born natures meet ! 
Give us, for Thee long pining. 

To eat till richly filled ; 
Till earth's delights resigning. 
Our every wish is stilled ! 

O Water, life-bestowing. 

From out the Saviour's heart, 
A fountain purely flowing, 

A fount of love thou art ! 
Oh let us freely tasting, 

Our burning thirst assuage ! 
Thy sweetness never wasting. 

Avails from age to age. 

Jesus, this feast receiving. 
We Thee unseen adore ; 



126 



Lyra Americana. 



Thy faithful word believing, ^ 
We take — and doubt no more ; 

Give us, Thou true and loving, 
On earth to live in Thee; 

Then, Death the vail removing. 
Thy glorious face to see ! 

Translated by Ray Palmer, 




Lyra Americana. 127 




RELIGION m rOUTH. 

F thou dost truly seek to live 
With all the joys that life can give ; 
If thy young feet would gladly press 
The ways of peace and happiness; 



Go thou, with fresh and fervent love, 
To Him who dwells in light above, 
Who sees ten thousand suns obey, 
Yet listens when the lowly pray. 

Cling thou to Jesus faithfully. 
As vines embrace their guardian tree ; 
Nor shame thy pure and lofty creed. 
Be His in thought, and word, and deed 5 

And thou shalt breathe in this low world. 
An eagle chained, with wings unfurled. 
Prepared, when once thy bonds are riven, 
To soar away, and flee to Heaven. 

James Gilborne Lyons. 



128 , Lyra Americana. 




/ WILL JRISE AND GO UNTO MT 
FATHER, 

O Thine eternal arms, O God ! 
Take us, Thine erring children, 
in; 
From dangerous paths too boldly trod. 
From wandering thoughts and dreams of 
sin. 

Those arms were round our childish ways, 
A guard through helpless years to be ; 

O leave not our maturer days. 

We still are helpless without Thee ! 

We trusted hope and pride and strength ; 

Our strength proved false, or pride was 
vain, 
Our dreams have faded all at length — 

We come to Thee, O Lord ! again. 



Lyra Americana. 



129 



A guide to trembling steps yet be ! 

Give us of Thine eternal powers ! 
So shall our paths all lead to Thee, 

And life smile on like childhood's hours. 

T. W. HiGGINSON. 




6* 



130 Lyra Americana. 




THE CHRIST CHILD, 

ESUS a child His course begun : 
How radiant dawned His heavenly- 
day ! 
And those who such a race would 
run 
As early should be on their 
way. 



His Father's business was His care; 

Yet in man's favour still He grew : 
O, might we learn by thought and prayer, 

Like Him a work of love to do ! 

For all mankind He came, nor yet 
An infant's visit would deny ; 

Nor friend nor mother did forget 
In His last hour of agony. 



Lyra Americana. 131 

O children ask Him to impart 

That spirit clear, that temper mild, 

Which made the mother in her heart 
Keep all the sayings of her Child. 

Bless Him who said, of such as you 
His Father's kingdom is, and still, 

His yoke to bear. His work to do, 
Study His life to learn His will. 

M. F. OssoLi. 




132 Lyra Americana. 




PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOUR OF 
GOD. 

•OUNG soldier of the cross, be- 
ware ! 
A watchful foe besets thy way. 
His bow is ready bent to slay 
The soul unarmed and bare : — 
Gird on thine armour for the fight. 
Close on the left hand and the right. 

Let truth's pure girdle belt thee round, 
Let Christ's own righteousness complete 
Protect thy breast, — and be thy feet 
With Gospel fitness bound ; 
Thy shield be Faith's unchanging light, 
Salvation's hope thy helmet bright. 

Grasp In thy hand that potent sword 
In Heaven's high armoury prepared, 



Lyra Americana. 



133 



Quick to attack, and strong to guard, 
The weapon of God's Word ; 
Then, strong in prayer, pursue thy way, 
Nor foe shall crush nor arrow slay ! 

Joseph H. Clinch, 




134 Lyra Americana. 




STILL, STILL WITH THEE, 

iTILL, still with Thee — ^when pur- 
ple morning breaketh, 
When the bird waketh and the 
shadows flee ; 
Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, 
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with 
Thee! 

Alone with Thee — amid the mystic shadows, 
The solemn hush of nature newly born ; 

Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, 

In the calm dew and freshness of the 
morn. 

As in the dawning, o'er the waveless ocean. 
The image of the morning star doth rest. 

So in this stillness. Thou beholdest only 
Thine image in the waters of my breast. 



Lyra Americana. 135 

Still, still with Thee ! as to each new-born 
morning 
A fresh and solemn splendour still is given, 
So doth this blessed consciousness awaking. 
Breathe each day, nearness unto Thee and 
Heaven. 

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, 
Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer. 

Sweet the repose beneath Thy wings o'ershading. 
But sweeter still, to wake and find Thee 
there. 

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning. 
When the soul waketh, and life's shadows 
flee ; 
Oh ! in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning. 
Shall rise the glorious thought — I am with 
Thee. 

Mrs. Stowe. 



^iM' 



136 Lyra Americana. 




THE CHRISTIAN'S SONG. 



O better days can ever rise ; 
My cup is running over ; 
From east to v^est I turn my eyes. 
Nor faintest cloud discover. 



My life, this lowly, human way. 
Has more than purple splendour ; 

And kingly guests come day by day, 
Their kingly gifts to render. 

The earth can never grow more fair : ' 
I know her grand perfection. 

And wait, while ages wax and wear, 
With her for God's protection. 

I tread with the immortal strength, 
Nor fear the mortal feeling ; 

What though I stoop to death at length j 
I find no room for wailing. 



Lyra Americana. 137 

Joy makes me humbler than my sins ; 

That I should see this glory ! 
That I should say " Lord enter in" — 

And know Thee and adore Thee 

I ask no gift beyond the gifts 

Thy love, O Christ ! hath given ; 

The fountain springing through the rifts, 
And daily bread from heaven. 

Shall I then walk with Thee, my God ? 

With Thee, Thou all forgiving ? 
Thy smile hath won me, not thy rod ; 

I praise Thee with the Living, 

Thy will is my eternal hope, 

My will is in Thy keeping ; 
Can I through heavenly sunlight grope ? 

Mid angel songs stand weeping ? 

The captive ransomed of the King, 

Are exiled slaves, no longer ; 
Oh heart, thy blest deliverer sing ! 

Lord, make this weak voice stronger ! 

I sing the power that doth restore ! 

A captive waits no longer; 
Freedom and life ? Oh, heart, adore ! 

God make this glad voice stronger ! 



138 



Lyra Americana. 



For Thou art glorious in the praise 
Thy love draws from Thy creature : 

Wisdom Thou art ! Ancient of Days, 
O Wisdom, be my teacher. 

And teach me, Master, in Thy way : 
Through loving human voices. 

Through earth's great glory, day by day, 
Through faith that aye rejoices. 

Or as Thou wilt ! for death is dead, 

And life is mine forever ; 
Lead me, dear Lord, and I am led ; 

Be Thine, all my endeavour. 

Caroline Chesebro. 




Lyra Americana. 139 




THE SPIRITUAL HUSBANDMAN'S 
LAMENT 



FT, in the summer days, I've marked 
some wild 
On which the sower vainly spent 
his toil ; 

Heaven's showers distilled, but still no 
verdure smiled 
O'er all the cheerless length of that obdurate 
soil. 

How fitly pictures this dull waste, me- 
thought. 
The arid wilderness / plough in vain ! 
' Cursing' steals on apace, to doom the 
spot 
Where only thorns repay the Spirit's gracious 
rain. 



140 Lyra Americana. 

Lord of the vineyard, with Thy power 
descend ! 
Breathe on these hearts of stone, and bid 
them hve ! 
The garden's beauty to the desert lend. 
And for the encumbering weed the rose of 
Sharon give ! 

Bishop Eastburn. 




Lyra Americana. 



141 



IFHT STJND TE HERE ALL THE 
DAT IDLE? 



^ HAT can I do the cause of God 
to aid ? 
Can powers so weak as mine 
Forward the great design ? 
Not by young hands are mighty efforts made. 




Not mighty efforts, but a willing mind, — 
Not strong, but ready hands 
The Vineyard's Lord demands ; 

For every age fit labour He can find. 



Come, then, in childhood to the vineyard's 
gate: 

Even you can dress the roots. 

And train the tender shoots. 
Then why in sloth and sin contented wait ? 



142 



Lyra Americana. 



To move the hardened soil, — to bend and lift 

The fallen branch, — to tread 

The wine-press full and red, — 
These need a stronger arm — a nobler gift. 

But all can aid the work. The little child 
May gather up some weed, 
Or drop some fertile seed. 
Or strew with flowers the path which else were 
dark and wild. 

Joseph H. Clinch. 




Lyra Americana. 143 




THE BUILDERS, 

LL are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 
Some with massive deeds and 
great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 
Leave no yawning gaps between ; 



1^4 Lyra Americana. 

Think not, because no man sees, 
Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where God may dwell. 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stair-ways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure. 

With a firm and ample base ; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain. 
And one boundless reach of sky. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



Lyra Americana. 145 




HTMN: FOR SISTERS OF MERCK 

ORD, lead the way the Saviour went, 
By lane and cell obscure, 
And let love's treasure still be 
spent. 
Like His, upon the Poor j 
Like Him through scenes of deep distress. 

Who bore the world's sad weight. 
We, in their crowded loneliness. 
Would seek the desolate. 

For Thou hast placed us side by side, 

In this wide world of ill, 
And that Thy followers may be tried. 

The Poor are with us still. 
Mfean are all offerings we can make. 

But Thou hast taught us, Lord, 
If given for the Saviour's sake. 

They lose not their reward. 

William Croswell. 



146 Lyra Americana. 




THE JOT UNKNOWN IN HEAVEN, 

[REMBLING, before Thine awful 
throne, 
O Lord, in dust my sins I own : 
Justice and mercy for my Ufe 
Contend ; oh, smile, and heal the strife I 

The Saviour smiles — upon my soul 
New tides of hope tumultuous roll ! 
His voice proclaims my pardon found ; 
Seraphic transport wings the sound 1 • 

Earth has a joy unknown in heaven, — 
The new-born peace of sins forgiven : 
Tears of such pure and rich delight. 
Ye angels ! never dimmed your sight. 

Ye know where morn exulting springs. 
And evening folds her drooping wings ; 



Lyra Americana. 

Loud in your song : the heavenly plain 
Is shaken by your choral strain. 



H7 



But I amid your choirs shall shine, 
And all your knowledge will be mine ; 
Ye on your harps must lean to hear 
A secret chord that mine will bear ! 

James A. Hillhouse. 



s 


^ 



1^8 Lyra Americana. 




LABO UR. 

AUSE not to dream of the future be- 
fore us ; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
come o'er us j 
Hark how Creations's deep musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing, 
Never the little seed stops in its growing, 
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps 
glowing. 
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

" Labour is worship ! " — the robin is singing ; 
" Labour is worship ! " — the wild bee is ringing ; 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing. 

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing 
flower ; 



Lyra Americana. 149 

From the small insect the rich coral bower ; 
Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his 
part. 

Labour is life ! — 'Tis the still water faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth : 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 

assaileth ; 
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 

noon. 
Labour is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens 5 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; 
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them 

in tune. 

Labour is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat 

us ; 
Rest from world-Sirens that lead us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy 

pillow ; 
Work — thou shalt ride o'er care's coming 

billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping 

willow : 
Work with a stout heart and resolute will. 



1^0 Lyra Americana. 

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are 

round thee ; 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound 

thee ; 
Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
Work for some good — be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flovrer — be it ever so lowly ; 
Labour ! — all labour is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy 
God. 

Frances Osgood. 




Lyra Americana. 151 




THE WAT, THE TRUTH, AND THE 
LIFE. 

THOU Great Friend to all the sons 

of men, 
Who once appeared in humblest 
guise below, 
Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain. 
And call Thy brethren forth from want and woe ! 

We look to Thee ; Thy truth is still the Light, 
Which guides the nations, groping on their way, 
Stumbling and falling in disastrous night. 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes ! Thou art still the Life ; Thou art the 

Way 
The holiest know j — Light, Life, and Way of 

Heaven ! 
And they who dearest hope, and deepest pray. 
Toil by the light, life, way, which Thou hast 

given. 

T. Parker. 



152 Lyra Americana. 




THE OVER-HEART. 

Yox of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things, to 
whom be glory forever." 

BOVE, below, in sky and sod, 
In leaf and spar, in star and man 
ffl[ Well might the wise Athenian 

iSij^a scan 

The geometric signs of God, 

The measured order of His plan. 

And India's mystics sang aright 
Of the One Life pervading all, — 
One Being's tidal rise and fall 

In soul and form, in sound and sight, — 
Eternal outflow and recall. 

God is : and man in guilt and fear 
The central fact of Nature owns ; — 
Kneels trembling, by his altar-stones, 



Lyra Americana. 1 53 

And darkly dreams the ghastly smear 
Of blood appeases and atones. 

God shapes the Terror : deep within 

The human heart the secret lies 

Of all the hideous deities 5 
And, painted on a ground of sin, 

The fabled gods of torment rise ! 

And what is He ? — the ripe grain nods, 

The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers 

blow; 
But darker signs His presence show : 

The earthquake and the storm are God's, 
And good and evil interflow. 

Oh, hearts of love ! Oh souls that turn 
Like sunflowers to the pure and blest ! 
To you the truth is manifest ; 

For they the mind of Christ discern 
Who lean like John upon His breast. 

In Him of whom the Sybil told. 

For whom the prophet's harp was toned, 
Whose need the sage and magian owned. 

The loving heart of God behold. 

The hope for which the ages groaned ! 



154 ^y^^ Americana. 

Fade, pomp of dreadful imagery 
Wherewith mankind have deified 
Their hate, and selfishness, and pride ! 

Let the scared dreamer wake to see 
The Christ of Nazareth at his side ! 

What doth that holy Guide require ? — 
No rite of pain, nor gift of blood, 
But man a kindly brotherhood. 

Looking where duty is desire. 
To Him, the beautiful and good. 

Gone be the faithlessness of fear. 

And let the pitying heaven's sweet rain 
Wash out the altar's bloody stain ; 

The law of Hatred disappear. 
The law of love alone remain. 

How fall the idols false and grim ! — 
And lo ! their hideous wreck above 
The emblems of the Lamb and Dove ! 

Man turns from God, not God from him ; 
And guilt in suffering whispers Love ! 

The world sits at the feet of Christ, 
Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled ; 
It yet shall touch His garment's fold, 

And feel the heavenly Alchemist 
Transform its very dust to gold. 



Lyra Americana. 



i« 



The theme befitting angel tongues 
Beyond a mortars scope has grown. 
Oh heart of mine ! with reverence own 
The fullness which to it belongs, 
And trust the unknown for the known ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




1 56 Lyra Americana. 




THE SOUL'S PROPHECr. 



LL before us lies the way j 

Give the past unto the wind ; 
All before us is the day, 

Night and darkness are behind. 



Eden with its angels bold, 

Love and flowers and coolest sea. 
Is less an ancient story told 

Than a glowing prophecy. 

In the spirit's perfect air, 

In the passions tame and kind. 

Innocence from selfish care, 
The real Eden we shall find. 

When the soul to sin hath died. 
True and beautiful and sound. 

Then all earth is sanctified, 
Upsprings paradise around. 



Lyra Americana. 157 

From the spirit-land, afar 

All disturbing force shall flee; 
Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar 

Its immortal unity. 

R. W. Emerson. 




158 Lyra Americana. 




PR OVIDENCE. 

E sendeth sun, He sendeth shower; 
Alike they're needful for the 
flower ; 
!^ And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment : 
As comes to me or cloud or sun, 
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! 

Can loving children e'er reprove 

With murmurs whom they trust and love ? 

Creator ! I would ever be 

A trusting, loving child to Thee : 

As comes to me or cloud or sun, 

Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! 

O ne'er will I at life repine ! 

Enough that Thou hast made it mine ; 



Lyra Americana. 



159 



When falls the shadow cold of death, 
I yet will sing, with parting breath — 
As comes to me or shade or sun, 
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! 

Sarah F. Adams. 




i6o Lyra Americana. 



A GREAT KING, ABOVE ALL GODS, 



m 



SJtS 



^^nlp^Pj^OW pleasing is Thy voice, 
.^llllMillll^ O Lord, our heavenly King ! 
I That bids the frosts retire, 
£, And wakes the lovely spring ! 
The rains return, the ice distills. 
And plains and hills forget to mourn. 

The morn with glory crowned, 

Thy hand arrays in smiles ; 
Thou bid*st the eve decline, 

Rejoicing o'er the hills. 
Soft suns ascend ; the mild wind blows ; 
And beauty glows to earth's far end. 

Thy showers make soft the fields ; 

On every side behold 
The ripening harvest wave 

Their loads of richest gold ! 
The labourers sing with cheerful voice. 
And, blest, rejoice in God, their King. 



Lyra Americana. 



161 



The thunder is His voice ; 

His arrows blazing fires ; 
He glows in yonder sun, 

And smiles in starry choirs. 
The balmy breeze His breath perfumes ; 
His beauty blooms in flowers and trees. 

With life He clothes the spring ; 

The earth with summer warms ; 
He spreads the autumnal feast, 

And rides in wint'ry storms. 
His gifts divine through all appear, 
And round the year His glories shine. 

DwiGHT. 




l62 Lyra Americana. 




ALTHOUGH THE FINE ITS FRUIT 
DENT. 

LTHOUGH the vine its fruit 
deny, 
The budding fig-trees droop and 
die, 
No oil the oHves yield. 
Yet will I trust me in my God, 
Yea, bend rejoicing to His rod. 
And by His grace be heaPd. 

Though fields, in verdure once array'd, 
By whirlwinds desolate be laid. 

Or parch'd by scorching beam ; 
Still in the Lord shall be my trust. 
My joy ; for, though His frown is just. 

His mercy is supreme. 

Though from the fold the flock decay, 
Though herds lie famished o'er the lea, 



Lyra Americana. 163 

And round the empty stall ; 
My soul above the wreck shall rise, 
Its better joys are in the skies ; 

There God is all in all. 

In God my strength, howe'er distrest, 
I yet will hope, and calmly rest, 

Nay, triumph in His love : 
My ling'ring soul, my tardy feet. 
Free as the hind He makes, and fleet, 

To speed my course above. 

Bishop H. U. Onderdonk. 




164 Lyra Americana. 




THE PEACE OF FAITH, 

HEN winds are raging o'er the 
upper ocean, 
And billows wild contend with 
angry roar, 

'Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commo- 
tion, 
That peaceful stillness relgneth evermore. 

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth. 
And silver waves chime ever peacefully. 

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth. 
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea. 

So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest ! 

There is a temple, sacred evermore. 
And all the babble of life's angry voices 

Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door. 



Lyra Americana. 165 

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth. 

And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully. 

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth. 
Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord, in 
Thee. 

O Rest of rests ! O Peace, serene, eternal ! 

Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never ; 
And In the secret of Thy presence dwelleth 

Fulness of joy, forever and forever. 

Mrs. Stowe. 




i66 Lyra Americana. 



HTMN OF TRUST, 




OVE Divine, that stooped to share 

Our sharpest pang, our bitterest 
tear. 
Thee are cast each earth-born 



&5 0n 



care. 
We smile at pain while Thou art near ! 



Though long the weary way we tread. 
And sorrow crown each lingering year. 

No path we shun, no darkness dread. 

Our hearts still whispering. Thou art near ! 



When drooping pleasure turns to grief. 
And trembling faith is changed to fear. 

The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf. 
Shall softly tell us. Thou art near ! 



Lyra Americana. 



167 



On Thee we fling our burdening woe, 

O Love Divine, forever dear, 
Content to suffer while we know, 

Living and dying. Thou art near ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




i68 Lyra Americana. 




AS THT DATS, SO SHALL THT 
STRENGTH BE, 

HEN adverse winds and waves 

arise, 
And in my heart despondence 
sighs ; 
When life her throng of cares reveals, 
And weakness o'er my spirit steals. 
Grateful I hear the kind decree. 
That " as my day, my strength shall be." 

When, with sad footsteps, memory roves 
'Mid smitten joys and buried loves, 
When sleep my tearful pillow flies. 
And dewy morning drinks my sighs. 
Still to Thy promise. Lord ! I flee, 
That " as my day, my strength shall be " 

One trial more must yet be past. 
One pang — the keenest and the last ; 



Lyra Americana. 169 

And when, with brow convulsed and pale, 
My feeble, quivering heart-strings fail. 
Redeemer ! grant my soul to see 
That "as her day, her strength shall be." 
Mrs. Sigourney. 




lyo Lyra Americana. 




Mr FAITH LOOKS UP TO THEE, 

Y Faith looks up to Thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour Divine ! 
Now hear me while I pray ; 
Take all my guilt away ; 
Oh, let me, from this day, 
Be wholly Thine ! 

May Thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart,— 

My zeal inspire ! 
As Thou hast died for me. 
Oh, may my love to Thee 
Pure, warm, and changeless be — 

A living fire ! 

While life's dark maze I tread. 
And griefs around me spread, 
Be Thou my guide ; 



Lyra Americana. 171 

Bid darkness turn to day, 
Wipe sorrow's tears away, 
Nor let me ever stray 
From Thee aside. 

When ends Hfe's transient dream. 
When death's cold, sullen stream 

Shall o'er me roll. 
Blest Saviour ! then, in love. 
Fear and distrust remove ; 
Oh, bear me safe above — 

A ransomed soul ! 

Ray Palmer. 




172 Lyra Americana. 




FAITH, 

ECURELY cabined in the ship 
below, 
Through darkness and through 
storm I crossed the sea, 
A pathless wilderness of waves to me : 
But yet I do not fear, because I know 

That He who guides the good ship o'er the 

waste 
Sees in the stars her shining pathway 
traced. 
Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering 
maze ; 
Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain 

pass. 
Through thornset barren, and through deep 
morass : 
But strong in faith I tread the uneven 
ways, 



Lyra Americana. 



173 



And bare my head unshrinking to the 

blast. 
Because my Father's arm is round me 
cast; 
And if the way seems rough, I only clasp 
The hand that leads me, with a firmer grasp. 

Anne C, Lynch. 



4% 



m^ 



m 



174 Lyra Americana. 




STILL WILL WE TRUST, 

TILL will we trust, though earth 
seem dark and dreary, 
And the heart faint beneath His 
chastening rod, 
Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and 
weary. 
Still will we trust in God ! 

Our eyes see dimly till by Faith anointed. 

And our blind choosing brings us grief and 
pain ; 
Through Him alone who hath our way appointed. 
We find our peace again. 

Choose for us, God ! — nor let our weak prefer- 
ring 
Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast de- 
signed : 



Lyra Americana. 175 

Choose for us, God ! — Thy wisdom is unerring, 
And we are fools and blind. 

So from our sky, the night shall furl her shadows. 
And Day pour gladness through his golden 
gates ; 
Our rough path leads to flower-enamelled 
meadows 
Where Joy our coming waits. 

Let us press on in patient self-denial. 

Accept the hardship, shrinking not from loss — 
Our guerdon lies beyond the hour of trial ; 
Our Crown, beyond the Cross. 
William H. Burleigh. 




176 



Lyra Americana. 



FAITH'S REPOSE. 




p^ATHER! beneath Thy sheltering 



wmo; 



In sweet security we rest, 
And fear no evil earth can bri 
In life, in death, supremely blest. 



For life is good whose tidal flow 
The motions of Thy will obeys; 

And death is good, that makes us know 
The Life Divine that all things sways. 

And good it is to bear the cross, 
And so Thy perfect peace to w^In : 

And nought is ill, nor brings us loss. 
Nor works us harm, save only sin. 

Redeemed from this, we ask no more. 
But trust the love that saves to guide — 

The grace that yields so rich a store. 
Will grant us all we need beside. 

William H. Burleigh. 



Lyra Americana. 177 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE 
DEEP. 



^m^ OCKED in the cradle of the 



-^ffilV ^ ^^y "^^ down in peace to 

^^^ sleep ; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
For Thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. 

I know Thou wilt not slight my call ! 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; 
And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

And such the trust that still were mine, 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine. 
Or though the tempest's fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 

8* 



lyS Lyra Americana. 

In ocean caves still safe with Thee, 
The germs of immortality ; 
And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of" the deep. 

Mrs. Willard. 




Lyra Americana. 179 




THE ANGEL OF THE LORD, 

NWARD speed thy conquering 
flight. 
Angel, onward speed. 
Cast abroad thy radiant light. 
Bid the shades recede ; 
Tread the idols in the dust, 
Heathen fanes destroy ; 
Spread the Gospel's love and trust. 
Spread the Gospel's joy. 

Onward speed thy conquering flight, 

Angel, onward fly ! 
Long has been the reign of night ; 

Bring the morning nigh. 
Unto thee earth's sufferers lift 

Their imploring wail ; 
Bear them heaven's holy gift 

Ere their courage fail. 



l8o Lyra Americana. 

Onward speed thy conquering flight, 

Angel, onward speed ! 
Morning bursts upon our sight, 

Lo ! the time decreed : 
Now the Lord his Kingdom takes. 

Thrones and empires fall ; 
Now the joyous song awakes, 

"Godis Allin All!" 

S. F. Smith. 




Lyra Americana. 181 




THE SACRIFICE OF PRAISE. 

ORD with glowing heart I'll praise Thee, 
For the bliss Thy love bestows ; 
For the pardoning grace that saves 
me, 

And the peace that from it flows : 
Help, O Lord, my weak endeavour, 

This dull soul to rapture raise : 
Thou must light the flame, or never 
Can my love be warmed to praise. 

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee. 

Wretched wanderer, far astray ; 
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee 

From the paths of death away : 
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling, 

Him who saw thy guilt-born fear. 
And, the light of hope revealing. 

Bade the blood-stain'd cross appear. 

Lord, this bosom's ardent feeling 
Vainly would my lips express : 



l82 



Lyra Americana. 



Low before Thy footstep kneeling, 
Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless : 

Let Thy grace, my soul's chief pleasure, 
Love's pure flame within me raise ; 

And since words can never measure. 
Let my love show forth Thy praise. 

S. F. Key 







Lyra Americana. 183 




TO GOD, MOST HIGH, 



MY Lord, I have but Thee ; 
Other friends are faint and few, 
To myself I am not true ; 

Yet, my God, Thou lovest me. 



I am poor and have no more 
But Thy love within my heart ; 
Earth shall never tear apart 

That which is my hidden store. 

Many, many doubts and fears, 
I have many pains and cares ; 
But Thou camest, at unawares, 

And I see Thee through my tears. 

I would never be my own, 
Nor on friends my heart strings twine 
I do seek to be but Thine, 

And to love but Thee alone. 



i84 



Lyra Americana. 



Jesus ! while Thy cross I see, 
Though my heart do bleed with woe, 
By those blessed streams I know. 

Blood of Thine was shed for me. 

my Lord ! be Thou my guide ; 
Let me hold Thee by the hand, 
Then, in drear and barren land, 

1 will seek no friend beside. 

Robert Lowell. 




Lyra Americana. 185 




NEEDED BLESSINGS, 

E ask not that our path be always 

bright, 
But for Thine aid to walk there- 
in aright ; 
That Thou, oh Lord ! through all its devious 

way. 
Wilt give us strength sufficient to our day, 
For this, for this we pray. 

Not for the fleeting joys that Earth bestows. 
Not for exemption from its many woes ; 
But that, come joy or woe, come good or ill. 
With child-like faith we trust Thy guidance still. 
And do Thy holy will. 

Teach us, dear Lord ! to find the latent good 
That sorrow yields, when rightly understood ; 
And for the frequent joy that crowns our days, 
Help us, with grateful hearts, our hymns to raise 
Of thankfulness and praise. 



i86 Lyra Americana. 

Thou knowest all our needs, and wilt supply — 
No veil of darkness hides us from Thine eye, 
Nor vainly, from the depths, on Thee we call ; 
Thy tender love, that breaks the tempter's thrall. 
Folds and encircles all. 

Through sorrow and through loss, by toil and 

prayer. 
Saints won the starry crowns which now they 

wear, 
And by the bitter ministry of pain. 
Grievous and harsh, but oh ! not sent in vain, 
Found their eternal gain. 

If it be ours, like them, to suffer loss. 
Give grace, as unto them, to bear our cross. 
Till, victors over each besetting sin. 
We, too. Thy perfect peace shall enter in, 
And crowns of glory win. 

William H. Burleigh. 



Lyra Americana. 187 




PRJTER, 

O prayer, to prayer ; — for the morn- 
ing breaks, 
And earth in her Maker's smile 
awakes. 

His light is on all below and above, 
The light of gladness and life and love. 
Oh, then, on the breath of this early air. 
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 

To prayer : — for the glorious sun is gone, 

And the gathering darkness of night comes 

on. 
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows 
To shade the couch where His children repose. 
Then kneel while the watching stars are 

bright. 
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of 

night. 



i88 Lyra Americana. 

To prayer : — for the day that God has blest 
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. 
It speaks of Creation's early bloom ; 
It speaks of the Prince that burst the tomb. 
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, 
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. 

There are smiles and tears in that gathering 

band, 
Where the heart Is pledged with the trembling 

hand. 
What trying thoughts In her bosom swell, 
As the bride bids parent and home farewell ! 
Kneel down by the side of the tearful there, 
And strengthen the fateful hour with prayer. 

There are smiles and tears In the mother's 

eyes. 
For her new-born Infant beside her lies : 
Oh hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows 
With a rapture a mother only knows : 
Let It gush forth In words of fervent prayer ; 
Let It swell up to heaven for her precious 

care. 

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, 

And pray for his soul through Him who died. 

Drops of anguish are thick on his brow , 



Lyra Americana. 189 

Oh what is earth and its pleasures now ? 
And what shall assuage his dark despair. 
But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? 

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
And hear the last words the believer saith. 
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; 
There is peace in the eye which the Spirit 

sends ; 
There is peace in his calm confiding air ; 
For his thoughts are with God, and his last 

words prayer. 

The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! 
A voice to strengthen, to soothe, to cheer. 
It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
It lifts the thoughts from the cold dark grave ; 
It points to the glory where He shall reign. 
Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise 
again." 

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! 
But gladder, purer, than rose from this. 
The ransomed shout to their glorious King, 
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they 

sing; 
But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; 
And their voices of prayer is eternal praise. 



IQO 



Lyra Americana. 



Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength 

To join that holy band at length. 

To Him, who unceasing love displays. 

Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, 

To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; 

For a life of prayer is a life of Heaven. 

Henry Ware, Jr. 




Lyra Americana. 



19: 



CHRISTUS REMUNERATOR, 




LIFTED hands of sovereign might, 
That spread beyond where sin 
can dare ! 
O tender eyes, whose loving light 
Strikes through a blind world's dull despair ! 

How shall we claim one glance of Thee 
Who hast all mortal fears to calm ? 

Or, Son of David, cry, on me 

Have mercy ? Nay Lord ! Here is balm. 

Let me not thrust before Thine eyes 

That seek where martyrs watch and wait, 

A thankless life, that idly lies, 

And brings no service, soon or late. 

So many bondmen to release ! 

And devils dumb to exorcise. 
Turbulent nations praying peace ! 

The grief I brought Thee voiceless lies. 



192 Lyra Americana. 

It has no place, it has no name. 

A gift of love to Love I bring, 
The dark sky glows with living flame ; 

Not grief and loss, but love, I sing. 

Dear Love that heeds the bird in nest, 
The singing bird, the dead in wood ; 

Great love ! that smiles from East to West, 
And fills all places as a flood. 

Avenging Love ! But who shall call 
Avenge me. Lord ! Oh Christ, we see 

The lifted hands have wounds ! we fall 
In silent shame to worship Thee. 

Caroline Chesebro. 




Lyra Americana. 



193 



RESIGNATION, 



HERE is no flock, however watched 
and tended, 
But one dead lamb Is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- 
fended. 
But has one vacant chair ! 




The air is full of farewells of the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise. 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 



We see but dimly through the mists and vapours 
Amid these earthly damps. 



194 I^y^ Americana. 

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition. 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion. 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she Is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
spoken. 

May reach her where she lives. 



Lyra Americana. 195 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the 
ocean. 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing 

The grief that must have way. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



196 Lyra Americana. 




WAITING BT THE GATE. 



ESIDE a massive gateway built up 
in years gone by, 
Upon whose top the clouds in eter- 
nal shadow lie, 
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet 

wood and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for 
me. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's 
flight, 

A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of 
the night ; 

I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow des- 
cant more. 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat 
of day is o'er. 



Lyra Americana. 197 

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, 
now. 

There steps a weary one with a pale and fur- 
rowed brow ; 

His count of years is full, his allotted task is 
wrought ; 

He passes to his rest from a place that needs 
him not. 

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the 

hour 
Of human strength and action, man's courage 

and his power. 
I muse while still the woodthrush sings down 

the golden day. 
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, 

throws 
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her 

hair. 
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young 

and fair. 

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 
Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as 
we gaze ! 



198 Lyra Americana. 

Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the 

restless air 
Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we 

know not where ! 

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shewn and 

then withdrawn ; 
But still the sun shines round me: the evening 

bird sings on, 
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient 

gate. 
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and 

wait. 

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant 

group go out. 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled 

the sprightly shout. 
Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the green 

sward strows 
Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind 

that blows ! 

So come from every region, so enter, side by 

side. 
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and 

men of pride. 



Lyra Americana. 199 

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those 

pillars gray, 
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along 

the way. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks 

are blank with fear, 
And some whose temples brighten with joy in 

drawing near, 
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the 

gracious eye 
Of Him the Sinless Teacher, who came for us 

to die. 

I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my 

heart. 
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to 

depart. 
And in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood 

and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for 

me. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



200 Lyra Americana. 




Mr PSJLM, 

MOURN no more my vanished years 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 



The west winds blow, and sighing low, 
I hear the glad streams run ; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear ; 
But, grateful, take the good I find. 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land. 
To harvest weed and tare ; 

The manna dropping from God's hand 
Rebukes my painful care. 



Lyra Americana. 201 

I break my pilgrim staff — I lay 

Aside my toiling oar ; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of Spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn, 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the Autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ; — 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise. 
The south wind softly sigh. 

And sweet, calm days in golden haze 
Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong ; 
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I the more enjoy. 

9* 



202 Lyra Americana. 

All as God wills, who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 

Enough that blessings undeserved 

Have marked my erring track : — 

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved. 
His chastening turned me back ; — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of Love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; 

That death seems but a covered way 

Which opens into light. 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight ; — 

That care and trial seem at last. 
Through Memory's sunset air, 

Like mountain-ranges overpast, 
In purple distance fair ; — 

That all the jarring notes of life 
Seem blending in a psalm. 

And all the angles of its strife 
Slow rounding into calm. 



Lyra Americana. 



203 



And so the shadows fall apart, 
And so the west winds play; 

And all the windows of my heart 
I open to the day. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




204 Lyra Americana. 




THE FELLOWSHIP OF SUFFERING. 



HY cruel crown of Thorns ! 

But where, O Lord, is mine ? 
Are there for me no scoiFs and 
scorns, 
Since only such were Thine ? 



Or having named Thy name, 
Shall I no burden take ? 

And is there left no thorn, no shame, 
To suffer for Thy sake ? 

Unscourged of any whip, 

Unpierced of any sting, — 

O Lord, how faint my fellowship 
With Thy sad suffering ! 

Yet Thy dread sacrifice 

So fills my soul with woe, 



Lyra Americana. 205 

That all the fountains of mine eyes 
Well up and overflow. 

The spear that pierced Thy side 

Gave wounds to more than Thee. 

Within my soul, O Crucified, 
Thy Cross is laid on me. 

And as Thy rocky tomb 

Was in a garden fair, 
Where round about stood flowers in bloom, 

To sweeten all the air, — 

So in my heart of stone 

I sepulchre Thy death, 
While thoughts of Thee, like roses blown, 

Bring sweetness in their breath. 

Arise not, O my Dead ! — 

As one whom Mary sought. 

And found an empty tomb instead, 
Her spices all for nought, — 

O Lord, not so depart 

From my enshrining breast, 
But lie anointed in a heart 

That by Thy death is blest. 



2o6 



Lyra Americana. 



Or if Thou shalt arise, 

Abandon not Thy grave, 
But bear it with Thee to the skies, — 

A heart that Thou shalt save ! 

Theodore Tjlton. 




Lyra Americana. 



207 



THE HOUR-GLASS, 



LAS ! how swift the moments fly ! 
How flash the hours along ! 
Scarce here, yet gone already by, — 
The burden of a song ; 
See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, 

And age with furrowed brow ; 
Time was — time shall be — drain the glass — 
But where in Time is Now ? 




Time is the measure but of change. 

No present hour is found ; 
The Past, the Future, fill the range 

Of Time's unceasing round. 
Where then is now ? In realms above, 

With God's atoning Lamb, 
In regions of eternal love, 

Where sits enthroned " I AM." 



Then, Pilgrim, let thy joys and tears 
On Time no longer lean j 



208 



Lyra Americana. 



But henceforth all thy hopes and fears 
From earth's affection wean ; 

To God let votive accents rise ; 
With truth^-with virtue live ; 

So all the bliss that Time denies, 
Eternity shall give. 

John Quincy Adams. 




Lyra Americana. 209 




THE ALPINE SHEEP. 

HEN on my ear your loss was 
knelled, 
And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little spring from memory 
welled, 
Which once had quenched my bitter thirst ; 

And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief. 
That it might be a healing dew. 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way. 
And on our home the shade of Death, 

Like a long twilight haunting lay, — 

And friends came round, with us to weep 
Her little spirit's swift remove, 



210 Lyra Americana. 

The story of the Alpine Sheep 
Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care, 
Soon crop the meadovi^*s tender prime, 

And when the sod grovv^s brown and bare, 
The Shepherd strives to make them climb,— 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain side, — 

Where grass and flowers together lean. 
And down through mist the sunbeams slide. 

But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try. 

Though sweet the Shepherd calls and sings. 
And seared below the pastures lie, — 

Till in his arms his lambs he takes. 

Along the dizzy verge to go, 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks. 

They follow on o*er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures, lifted fair. 
More dewy-soft than lowland mead 

The Shepherd drops his tender care, 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 



Lyra Americana. 



211 



This parable by Nature breathed, 
Blew on mc as the south-wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway, 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the starry way, — 

Holding our little lamb asleep. 

While, like the murmur of the sea, 

Sounded that voice along the deep. 
Saying, " Arise and follow me." 

Maria White Lowell. 




212 Lyra Americana. 




LOWLY AND SOLEMN BE, 

OWLY and solemn be 

Thy children's cry to Thee, 

Father Divine ; 
A hymn of suppliant breath, 
Owning that life and death 
Alike are Thine ! 

O Father, in that hour. 
When earth all helping power 

Shall disavow — 
When spear, and shield, and crown. 
In faintness are cast down — 

Sustain us. Thou ! 

By Him who bowed to take 
The death-cup for our sake. 

The thorn, the rod — 
From whom the last dismay 
Was not to pass away. 

Aid us, O God ! 

Mrs. Sigourney. 



Lyra Americana. 213 




DYING, AND YET LIVING, 

I HE died — ^yet is not dead ! 

Ye saw a daisy on her tomb : 
It bloomed to die — she died to 
bloom ; 
Her summer hath not sped. 

She died — ^yet is not dead ! 

Ye saw her jewels all unset ; 

But God let fall a coronet 
To crown her ransorned head. 

She died — yet is not dead ! 

Ye saw her gazing toward a sky 
Whose lights are shut from mortal eye ; 

She lingered — ^yearned — and fled. 

She died — yet is not dead ! 

Through pearly gate, on golden street, 
She went her way with shining feet : — 

Go ye, and thither tread ! 

Theodore Tilton. 



214 hyni Americana. 




PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERINGS. 



ERFECT through sufferings": 

may it be, 
Saviour, made perfect, thus, for 
me! 

I bow, I kiss, I bless the rod. 
That brings me nearer to my God. 



"Perfect through suffering" : be Thy Cross 
The crucible to purge my dross ! 
Welcome, for that, its pangs, its scorns, 
Its scourge, its nails, its crown of thorns. 



" Perfect through suffering " : heap the fire, 
And pile the sacrificial pyre ; 
But spare each loved and loving one, 
And let me feed the flames, alone. 



Lyra Americana. 215 

" Perfect through suffering" : urge the blast, 
More free, more full, more fierce, more fast ; 
It reeks not where the dust be trod. 
So the flame waft my soul to God. 

Bishop Doane. 




2i6 Lyra Americana. 




BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN. 

H, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor 
keep ; 
The Power who pities man, has 
shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night ; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 

And thou who o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 



Lyra Americana. 217 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the goodman's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart 
And spurned of man, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all His children suffer here. 

William Cullen Bryant, 




10 



2i8 Lyra Americana. 




STHOI EAPAIOX n^ ARMflN TTHTO- 
MENO^. 

St. Ignatius to St. Polycarp. (Both Martyrs.) 

TAND like an anvil," when 
the stroke, 
Of stalwart men, falls fierce 
and fast j 

Storms, but more deeply, root the oak. 
Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. 

" Stand like an anvil," when the sparks 
Fly far and wide, a fiery shower ; 
Virtue and truth must still be marks. 

Where malice proves its want of power. 

" Stand like an anvil," when the bar 

Lies, red and glowing, on its breast ; 
Duty shall be life's leading star. 
And conscious innocence, its rest. 



Lyra Americana. 



219 



" Stand like an anvil," when the sound 
Of ponderous hammers pains the ear ; 
Thine, but the still and stern rebound 
Of the great heart that cannot fear, 

" Stand like an anvil ; " noise and heat 
Are born of earth, and die with time ; 
The soul, like God, its source and seat. 
Is solemn, still, serene, sublime. 

Bishop Doane. 




■%m? 



220 Lyra Americana. 




THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

HERE is a Reaper, whose name is 
Death, 
And, with his sickle keen. 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
And the flowers that glow between. 

*' Shall I have nought that is fair ? " saith he ; 

" Have nought but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to 
me, 

I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

*'My Lord has need of these flowrets gay," 
The Reaper said, and smiled ; 



Lyra Americana. 221 

" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where He was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white. 

These sacred blossoms wear.'* 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love j 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth. 

And took the flowers away. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 




222 Lyra Americana. 




EARLT LOST, EARLY SAVED, 



"^ITHIN her downy cradle, there 
lay a little child, 
And a group of hovering angels 
unseen upon her smiled ; 
When a strife arose among them, a loving, holy 

strife. 
Which should shed the richest blessing over the 
new-born life. 



One breathed upon her features, and the babe in 

beauty grew, 
With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an 

eye of azure hue ; 
Till every one who saw her, were thankful for 

the sight 
Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh 

delight. 



Lyra Americana. 223 

Another gave her accents, and a voice as 

musical 
As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling 

streamlet's fall ; 
Till all who heard her laughing, or her w^ords 

of childish grace, 
Loved as much to listen to her, as to look upon 

her face. 



Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle 

mind. 
And within the lovely casket the precious gem 

enshrined ; 
Till all who knew her wondered, that God 

should be so good. 
As to bless with such a spirit a world so cold 

and rude. 



Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and 

truth, 
The budding of her childhood just opening into 

youth ; 
And to our hearts yet dearer, every moment 

than before. 
She became, though we thought fondly, heart 

could not love her more. 



224 ■'^y^'^ Americana. 

Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter 

than the rest. 
As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her 

to his breast : 
" Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of 

mortal race. 
But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er 

her face ; 



" Ye have tuned to gladness only, the accents of 

her tongue. 
And no wail of human anguish, shall from her 

lips be wrung ; 
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from 

within 
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know a 

sense of sin. 



" Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her 
far away. 

Where there is no sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, 
nor decay ; 

And mine a boon more glorious than all your 
gifts shall be — 

Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immor- 
tality ! " 



Lyra Americana. 



225 



Then on his heart, our darling yielded up her 

gentle breath, 
For the stronger, brighter angel who loved her 

best, was Death. 

George W. Bethune. 




10* 



226 Lyra Americana. 




THE CHANGELING, 

HAD a little daughter. 

And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature. 

Might in some dim wise divine 

The depth of his infinite patience 

To this wayward soul of mine. 

I know not how others saw her. 

But to me she was wholly fair. 
And the light of heaven she came from 

Still lingered and gleamed i*i her hair ; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 

And as many changes took. 
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 
Upon me, her kneeling lover, 



Lyra Americana. 227 

How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, 

And dimpled her wholly over, 
Till her outstretched hands smiled also, 

And I almost seemed to see 
The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to me ! 

She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, 

And it hardly seemed a day. 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my little daughter away ; 
Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 

But loosened the hampering strings, 
And when they had opened her cage-door. 

My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child. 
That seems like her bud in blossom. 

And smiles as she never smiled : 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie. 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky. 

As weak, yet as trustful also ; 
For the whole year long I see 



228 Lyra Americana. 

All the wonders of fanciful Nature 
Still worked for the love of me ; 

Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, 
Rain falls, suns rise and set. 

Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 
A poor little violet. 

The child is not mine as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bless it upon my breast ; 
Yet it lies in my little one*s cradle. 

And sits in my little one's chair. 
And the light of the heaven she's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 

James Russell Lowell. 




Lyra Americana. 229 



DIES IRM. 

i^^^^^AY of vengeance, without morrow ! 
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, 
As from Saint and Seer we bor- 
row. 

Ah ! what terror is impending, 
When the Judge is seen descending, 
And each secret veil is rending. 

To the throne, the trumpet sounding. 
Through the sepulchres resounding. 
Summons all, with voice astounding. 

Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking. 
When, the grave's long slumber breaking, 
Man to judgment is awaking. 

On the written Volume's pages. 
Life is shown in all its stages — 
Judgment-record of past ages ! 



230 Lyra Americana. 

Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, 
Darkest mysteries explaining, 
Nothing unavenged remaining. 

What shall I then say, unfriended, 

By no advocate attended, 

When the just are scarce defended. 

King of majesty tremendous. 
By Thy saving grace defend us, 
Fount of pity, safety send us ! 

Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing. 

For my sins the death-crown wearing. 

Save me, in that day, despairing. 

Worn and weary Thou hast sought me ; 
By Thy cross and passion bought me ; — 
Spare the hope Thy labours brought me. 

Righteous Judge of retribution. 
Give, O give me absolution 
Ere the day of dissolution. 

As a guilty culprit groaning. 
Flushed my face, my errors owning. 
Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning ! 



Lyra Americana. 231 

Thou to Mary gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
Bad'st me hope in my. contrition. 

In my prayers no grace discerning, 
Yet on me Thy favour turning, 
Save my soul from endless burning ! 

Give me, vi^hen Thy sheep confiding 
Thou art from the goats dividing. 
On Thy right a place abiding ! 

When the wicked are confounded, 
And by bitter flames surrounded, 
Be my joyful pardon sounded ! 

Prostrate, all my guilt discerning. 
Heart as though to ashes turning ; 
Save, O save me from the burning ! 

Day of weeping, when from ashes 
Man shall rise 'mid lightning flashes. 
Guilty, trembling with contrition. 
Save him. Father, from perdition ! 

John A. Dix. 

Translated from the Bre-viary. 



232 



Lyra Americana. 



O, ANGEL OF THE LAND OF PEACE. 



ANGEL of the land of peace, 
When wilt thou ever come for 
me ? 
I fain would be where sorrows 
cease, 
I dread no more thy kind release, 
I wait for thee. 




Sleep shuns mine eyes — mine inner sight 

Is turning dimly heaven-ward, 
To that far land of love and light. 
Where angels all the silent night 
Earth's children guard. 



My yearning soul would fain demand, 

O, holy angels, pure and blest. 
Where, 'mid yon happy, shining band, 
In all the heavenly Fatherland, 
My lost ones rest ! 



Lyra Americana. 233 

Thou, who alone, when man forgot 
His heavenly innocence, and fell ! 
Still pitying, lingered round the spot 
To soothe the anguish of his lot — 
Thou, Thou canst tell ! 

For Thou, with sweet and loving smile. 
Didst gently lure them ^to Thy breast. 
And bear them from this world of guile, 
Thy pale, pure angel lips the while 
Upon them prest. 

Dark grew my soul — till down the air 

Thy seraph-smile upon me fell ! 
And then I knew, from sin and care, 
That Thou my little ones didst bear 
With God to dwell ! 

O, angel of the land of peace ! 

When wilt Thou ever come for me ? 
I fain would be where sorrows cease ; 
I dread no more Thy kind release ; 
I wait for Thee ! 

Mrs. C. M. Sawyer. 



234 ^y^^ Americana. 




FISIT ME WITH THT SALVATION. 



ILT Thou not visit me ? 
The plant beside me feels Thy 
gentle dew ; 
Each blade of grass I see, 
From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture 
drew. 

Wilt Thou not visit me ? 
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ; 

And every hill and tree 
Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone. 



Come ! for I need Thy love, 
More than the flower, the dew, or grass the 
rain j 

Come, like Thy holy dove. 
And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again. 



Lyra Americana. 



235 



Yes ; Thou wilt visit me ; 
Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well 

As when, from sin set free, 
Man's spirit comes with Thine in peace to 
dwell. 

Jones Very. 




236 Lyra Americana. 




THE SPIRIT, IN OUR HEARTS. 



HE Spirit, in our hearts, 

Is whispering, " Sinner, come : " 
The bride, the church of Christ, 
proclaims 
To all His children, " Come ! " 



Let him that heareth say 

To all about him, " Come ! " 
Let him that thirsts for righteousness. 
To Christ, the fountain, come ! 

Yea, whosoever will, 
O let him freely come. 
And freely drink the stream of life ; 
'Tis Jesus bids him come. 

Lo ! Jesus, who invites. 

Declares, " I quickly come ; " 
Lord, even so ! we wait Thine hour 3 
O blest Redeemer, come ! 

Bishop H. U. Onderdonk. 



Lyra Americana. 



237 



A SUPPLICATION. 




LOVE Divine ! lay on me burdens, 
if Thou wilt ; 
Burdens to break, In mercy, my 
fond, feverish sleep; 
Turn comforts into awful prophets to my 
guilt. 
Let me but at Thy wondrous footstool fall 
and weep ! 



Visit and change, uplift, ennoble, recreate 
me ! 
Ordain whatever masters In Thy saving 
school ; 
Let the whole eager host of Fashion's flatterers 
hate me. 
So Thou wilt henceforth guide me by Thy 
loving rule. 



238 Lyra Americana. 

I pray not, Lord, to be redeemed from mortal 
sorrow ; 
Redeem me only from my vain and mean self- 
love ; 
Then let each night of grief lead in a mourning 
morrow. 
Fear shall not shake my trust in Thee, — my 
Peace above. 



Yet while the Resurrection waves its signs 
august. 
Like morning's dewy banners on a cloudless 
sky. 
My weak feet cling enamoured to the parching 
dust, 
And, on the sand, poor pebbles lure my roving 
eye. 



Ye witnessings of silent, sad Gethsem- 
ane, — 
That shaded garden whence light breaks for 
all our earth, — 
Around my anguish let your faithful influence 
be! 
Ye prayers and sighs divine, be my immortal 
birth ! 



Lyra Americana. 239 

Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high 
desire ; 
Seven times seven years earn the Sabbatic 
Rest ; 
Earth's fickle, cruel lap — ^alternate frost and 
fire — 
Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's 
breast. 



O Way for all that live ! heal us by pain and 
loss ; 
Fill all our years with toil, and bless us with 
Thy rod. 
Thy bonds bring wider freedom ; climbing by 
Thy cross, 
Wins that brave height where looms the city 
of our God ! 



O Sunshine, rising ever on our night of sad- 
ness ! 
O Best of all our good, and Pardoner of our 
sin ! 
Look down with pity on our unbelieving mad- 
ness ! 
To Heaven's great welcome take us, home- 
sick pilgrims, in ! 



240 Lyra Americana. 

Spirit that overcame the world's long tribula- 
tion 
Try faltering faith, and make it firm through 
much enduring ; 
Feed weary hearts with patient hopes of thy 
salvation ; 
Make strait submission, more than luxury's 
ease, alluring. 



Hallow our wit with prayer ; our mastery steep 
in meekness ; 
Pour on our study inspiration's holy 
light ; 
Hew out, for Christ's dear Church, a Future 
without weakness. 
Quarried from Thine Eternal Beauty, Order, 
Might ! 



Met, there, mankind's great Brotherhood of souls 
and Powers, 
Raise thou full praises from its farthest corners 
dim ; 
Pour down, O steadfast Sun, thy beams on all 
its towers ; 
Roll through its wide-world spaces Faith's 
majestic hymn. 



Lyra Americana. 



241 



Come, age of God's own Truth, after man's 
age of Fables ! 
Seed sown In Eden, yield the nation's healing 
tree ! 
Ebal and Sinai, Mamre's tents, the Hebrew 
tables. 
All look towards Olivet, and bend to Calvary. 

Fold of the tender Shepherd ! rise, and spread ! 
Arch o'er our frailty roofs of everlasting 
strength ! 
Be all the Body gathered to its living Head ! 
Wanderers, we faint : O, let us find our 
Lord at length. 

F. D. Huntington. 




11 



242 Lyra Americana. 




THE CLOUD ON THE WAY, 



'EE before us, in our journey, 

broods a mist upon the ground ; 
Thither leads the path we walk in, 
blending with that gloomy bound. 
Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mys- 
tery they screen ; 
Those who once have passed within it never 

more on earth are seen. 
Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seem- 
ing distance lowers. 
Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with 

summer-green and flowers. 
Yet it blots the way forever ; there our journey 

ends at last ; 
Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered 

to the past. 
Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading 
through a stranger-land. 



Lyra Americana. 243 

Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me 

hand in hand, 
Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that 

dim Unknown ? 
Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty 

path alone ? 
Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek Is 

white with fear. 
And thou clingest to my side as comes that 

darkness sweeping near. 
" Here," thou say'st, " the path Is rugged, sown 

with thorns that wound the feet ; 
But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivu- 
let's song is sweet ; 
Roses breathe from tangled thickets ; lilies bend 

from hedges brown ; 
Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sun- 
shine gushes down ; 
Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose 

looks and voices make 
All this rugged region cheerful, till I love It for 

their sake. 
Far be yet the hour that takes me where that 

chilly shadow lies, 
From the things I know and love, and from the 

sight of loving eyes." 
So thou murmurest, fearful one ; but see, we 

tread a rougher way ; 



244 Lyra Americana. 

Fainter glow the gleams of sunshine that upon 

the dark rocks play ; 
Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the 

crags o'er which we pass ; 
Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss 

with tufts of withered grass. 
One by one we miss the voices which we 

loved so well to hear ; 
One by one the kindly faces in that shadow dis- 
appear. 
Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with 

closer view ; 
See beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning 

glimmers through. 
One whose feet the thorns have wounded pass- 
ed that barrier and came back. 
With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the 

dreary track. 
Boldly enter where He entered ; all that seems 

but darkness here. 
When thou hast passed beyond it, haply shall 

be crystal clear. 
Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of 

human life may lie. 
Like the page of some familiar volume, open to 

thine eye ; 
Haply from the o'erhanging shadow, thou may'st 

stretch an unseen hand. 



Lyra Americana. 24 j 

To support the wavering steps that print with 

blood the rugged land. 
Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting 

thou art near. 
Thou may'st whisper words of warning or of 

comfort in his ear. 
Till beyond the border where that brooding 

mystery bars the sight. 
Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand 

with thee in peace and light. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




246 



Lyra Americana. 



THE DATS OF SIN, 




H, mournful, mournful time ! 
I prayed : but sin was there : 
Sin crept upon my prayer, 

And made my prayer a crime ! 



I prayed, and prayed again : 
But sin was in it still ! 
It throttled my weak will , 

I struggled but in vain. 

I burned by day and night, 
I feared that fire of sin — 
Its covering seemed so thin — 

Would show to other's sight ! 

My daily work I did, — 

I talked of Heaven and Hell, 
Full often and full well, — 

But ah ! what woe I hid ! 



Lyra Americana. 247 

It seemed as if my fate 

Were up : in Satan's mesh — 
A damned soul in flesh — 

I lived beyond my date. 

Christ's life in me seemed lost ! 
Where was the promise now. 
Sealed to me when my brow 

In his blest sign was crossed ? 

I strove to fly from me ; 

Always it was the same ; 

Hell was where'er I came ; 
God's wrath I could not flee. 

Such life I loathed to keep, 

But could I dare to die ? 

Heaven's walls so hopeless high, 
And Hell a soundless deep? 

My heart aye told me well 

I gave myself away, 

To be the Devil's prey — 
By my own hand I fell. 

I struggled once for all ; 

God's altar — there I prayed ; 

And bitter cry I made 
Behind my closet wall. 



248 Lyra Americana. 

A change began to be ! 

I felt the Breath of Life ; 

For Heaven and Hell was strife : 
I struggled, and was free ! 

Ah ! now the strife was done : 
I sought the Flesh and Blood ; 
I ate salvation's food ; 

My soul to Christ was won. 

Robert Lowell. 




Lyra Americana. 249 




THE WAT, 

CANNOT plainly see the way, 
So dark the grave is ; but I know 

If I do truly work and pray, 

Some good will brighten out of woe. 



For the same hand that doth unbind 

The winter winds, sends sweetest showers, 

And the poor rustic laughs to find 
His April meadows full of flowers. 

I said I could not see the way, 

And yet what need is there to see, 

More than to do what good I may. 
And trust the great strength over me ? 

Why should my spirit pine, and lean 
From its clay house ; or, restless, bow, 

Asking the shadows, if they mean 
To darken always, dim as now ? 
11* 



250 



Lyra Americana. 



Why should I vainly seek to solve 

Free will, necessity, the pall ? 
I feel — I know — that God is love. 

And knowing this, I know it all. 

Alice Gary. 




Lyra Americana. 251 




NEARER, Mr GOD, TO THEE, 



EARER, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee : 
Even though It be a cross 
That raiseth me, 
Still all my song shall be. 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee. 

Though like a wanderer. 
Daylight all gone. 

Darkness be over me. 
My rest a stone, 

Yet in my dreams, Pd be 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee. 

There let the v^ay appear 
Steps up to heaven ; 



252 Lyra Americana. 

All that Thou sendest me 

In mercy given, 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee. 

Then with my waking thoughts, 
Bright with Thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs. 
Bethel I'll raise ; 

So by my woes to be 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee. 

Or if on joyful wing, 

Cleaving the sky. 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 

Upward I fly. 
Still all my song shall be. 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee. 

Sarah F. Adams. 



Lyra Americana. 



253 



ABIDE IN ME, 



'HAT mystic word of Thine, O 
Sovereign Lord ! 
Is all too pure, too high, too deep 
for me ; 

Weary with striving, and with longing faint, 
I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee 




Abide in me — overshadowed by Thy love 

Each half-formed purpose and dark thought 
of sin. 

Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire. 
And keep my soul as Thine — calm and divine. 



As some rare perfume in a vase of clay 
Pervades it with a fragrance not its own — 

So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul. 

All heaven's own sweetness seems around it 
thrown. 



254 Lyra Americana. 

The soul alone, like a neglected harp, 

Grows out of tune, and needs that Hand 

divine ; 
Dwell Thou within it, tune and touch the 

chords. 
Till every note and string shall answer Thine. 

Abide in me : there have been moments pure. 
When I have seen Thy face and felt Thy 
power 5 

Then evil lost its grasp, and passion, hushed. 
Owned the divine enchantment of the hour. 

These were but seasons beautiful and rare ; 

Abide in me — and they shall ever be; 
I pray Thee now fulfil my earnest prayer. 

Come and abide in me, and I in Thee. 

Mrs. Stowe. 




Lyra Americana. 255 




LOOK ALOFT, 

N the tempest of life, when the wave 
and the gale 
Are around and above, if thy footing 
should fail. 
If thine eyes should grow dim, and thy caution 

depart, 
" Look aloft ! " and be firm, and be fearless of 
heart. 

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow. 
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each 

woe. 
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds 

are arrayed, 
" Look aloft ! " to the friendship which never 

shall fade. 

Should the visions which hope spreads in light 

to thine eyes, 
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 



256 Lyra Americana. 

Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, 
" Look aloft ! " to the sun that is never to set. 

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy 

heart, 
The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart, 
" Look aloft ! " from the darkness and dust of 

the tomb, 
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. 

And oh ! when death comes in his terrors, to cast 

His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 

In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy 

heart, 
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft!" and 

depart. 

J. Lawrence. 



Lyra Americana. 257 




THE VICTORY OF LIFE, 

ONCE made search, in hope to find 
Abiding peace of mind. 

I toiled for riches — as if these 
Could bring the spirit ease ! 



I turned aside to books and lore, 
Still baffled as before. 

I tasted then of love and fame. 
But hungered still the same. 

I chose the sweetest paths I knew, 
Where only roses grew. 

Then fell a voice from out the skies. 
With message in this wise: 

" O my disciple ! is it meet 

That roses tempt thy feet ? 



258 Lyra Americana. 

" Thy Master, even for His head, 
Had only thorns instead ! " 

Then, drawn as by a heavenly grace, 
I left the flowery place. 

And walked on cutting flints and stones. 
I said with tears and groans: 

'' O Lord ! my feet, where Thou dost lead. 
Shall follow though they bleed ! " 

As then I saw He chose my path 
For discipline, not wrath, 

I walked in weakness, till at length 
I suffered unto strength. 

Nor ever were my trials done. 
But straightway new begun. 

For when I learned to cast disdain 
Upon some special pain. 

He gave me sharper strokes to bear. 
And pierced me to despair. 

Until, so sorely was I pressed, 
I broke beneath the test. 



Lyra Americana. 259 

And fell within the Tempter's power. 
Yet in the evil hour, 

Bound hand and foot, I cried, " O Lord ! 
Break Thou the three-fold cord ! " 

And while my soul was at her prayer. 
He snatched me from the snare. 

I then approached the gate of death, 
Where, struggling for my breath, 

I smote my coward knees in fear. 
Aghast to stand so near ! 

Yet when I shivered in the gloom, 
Down-gazing in the tomb, 

" O Lord ! " I cried, " bear Thou my sin. 
And I will enter in ! " 

But He by whom my soul was tried 
Not yet was satisfied. 

For then he crushed me with a blow 
Of more than mortal woe. 

Till bitter death had been relief 
To my more bitter grief. 



26o Lyra Americana. 

Yet, bleeding, panting in the dust, 
I knew His judgment just , 

And, as a lark with broken wing 
Sometimes has heart to sing. 

So I, all shattered, still could raise 
To His dear name the praise ! 

Henceforth I know a holy prayer 
To conquer pain and care. 

For when my struggling flesh grows faint, 
And murmurs with complaint. 

My spirit cries. Thy will be done ! 
And finds the victory won. 

Theodore Tilton. 




Lyra Americana. 261 




THE RED RIVER VOTJGEUR, 

UT and in the river is winding 

The links of its long, red 
chain, 
Through belts of dusky pine- 
land 
And gusty leagues of plain. 

Only, at times, a smoke-wreath 

With the drifting cloud-rack joins, — 

The smoke of the hunting-lodges 
Of the wild Assiniboins ! 

Drearily blows the north wind 
From the land of ice and snow ; 

The eyes that look are weary. 
And heavy the hands that row. 

And with one foot on the water. 
And one upon the shore. 



262 Lyra Americana. 

The Angel of Shadow gives warning 
That day shall be no more. 

Is it the clang of wild-geese ? 

Is it the Indian's yell, 
That lends to the voice of the north wind 

The tones of a far-off bell ? 

The voyageur smiles as he listens 
To the sound that grows apace ; 

Well he knows the vesper ringing 
Of the bells of St. Boniface. 

The bells of the Roman Mission, 
That call from their turrets twain, 

To the boatmen on the river. 
To the hunter on the plain ! 

Even so in our mortal journey 
The bitter north winds blow. 

And thus upon Hfe's Red River 
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. 

And when the Angel of Shadow 
Rests his feet on wave and shore. 

And our eyes grow dim with watching 
And our hearts faint at the oar ; 



Lyra Americana. 



263 



Happy Is he who heareth 

The signal of his release 
In the bells of the Holy City, 

The chimes of eternal peace ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




264 Lyra Americana. 




HOME FOR THE WEARY, 

HERE is an hour of peaceful 
rest, 
To mourning wanderers given ; 
There is a tear for souls distressed, 
A balm for every wounded breast : 
'Tis found above — in heaven. 

There is a home for weary souls, 

By sin and sorrow driven, — 
When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals. 
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls. 

And all is drear — but heaven. 

There faith lifts up her cheerful eye 

To brighter prospects given ; 
And views the tempest passing by. 
The evening shadows quickly fly. 

And all serene — in heaven. 



Lyra Americana. 



265 



There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 
And joys supreme are given ; 

There rays divine disperse the gloom ; 

Beyond the confines of the tomb 
Appears the dawn of heaven ! 

W. B. Tappan. 




12 



266 Lyra Americana. 




BOW, ANGELS, FROM TOUR GLORI- 
OUS STATE. 



O W, angels, from your glorious state, 
If e'er on earth you trod. 
And lead me through the golden gate 
Of prayer, unto my God. 



I long to gather from the Word 
The meaning full and clear. 

To build unto my gracious Lord 
A tabernacle here. 

Against my heart the tempests beat, 
The snows are falling chill. 

When shall I hear the voice so sweet. 
Commanding, Peace, be still ! 

The angels said, God giveth you 
His love — what more is ours ? 

Even as the cisterns of the dew 
O'erflow upon the flowers. 



Lyra Americana. 



267 



His grace descends ; and, as of old, 

He walks with men apart, 
Keeping the promise, as foretold, 

With all the pure in heart. 

Alice Gary, 




268 Lyra Americana. 




THE PURER PATH, 

O bird-song floated down the hill, 
The tangled bank below was still ; 

No rustle from the birchen stem, 
No ripple from the water's hem. 



The dusk of twilight round us grew. 
We felt the falling of the dew j 

Far from us, ere the day was done, 
The wooded hills shut out the sun. 

But on the river's farther side 
We saw the hill-tops glorified, — 

A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
A dream of day without its glare. 

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; 



Lyra Americana. 269 

While dark, through willowy vistas seen, 
The river rolled in shade between. 

From out the darkness where we trod 
We gazed upon the hills of God, 

Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. 
We spake not, but our thought was one. 

We paused as if from that bright shore 
Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; 

And stilled our beating hearts to hear 
The voices lost to mortal ear ! 

Sudden our pathway turned from night ; 
The hills swung open to the light ; 

Through their green gates the sunshine showed, 
A long, slant splendour downward flowed. 

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; 
It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; 

And, borne on piers of mist, allied 
The shadowy with the sunlit side ! 

" So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near 
The river, dark with mortal fear. 



270 



Lyra Americana. 



" And the night cometh chill with dew, 
O Father ! — let Thy light break through ! 

" So let the hills of doubt divide, 
So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 

" So let the eyes that fail on earth 
On Thy eternal hills look forth ; 

" And in Thy beckoning angels know 
The dear ones whom we loved below ! " 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




Lyra Americana. 271 




LIGHT AND LOVE, 

IGHT waits for us in heaven : Inspiring 
thought ! 
That when the darkness all is 
overpast, 
The beauty which the Lamb of God has bought 

Shall flow about our saved souls at last, 
And wrap them from all night-time and all woe : 
The Spirit and the Word assure us so. 

Love lives for us in heaven : Oh, not so sweet 
Is the May dew which the mountain flowers 
inclose, 
Nor golden raining of the winnowed wheat. 

Nor blushing out of the brown earth, of rose, 
Or whitest lily, as, beyond time's wars. 
The silvery raising of these two twin stars ' 

Alice Gary. 



272 



Lyra Americana. 



IMMORTALITY, 




[O think for aye ; to breathe immortal 

breath ; 
And know nor hope, nor fear, of 
ending death ; 
To see the myriad worlds that round us roll 
Wax old and perish, while the steadfast soul 
Stands fresh and moveless in her sphere of 

thought ; 
O God, omnipotent 1 who in me wrought 
This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb, 
When the dead Past shall all in time absorb. 
Will be but as begun, — O, of Thine own. 
Give of the holy Hght that veils Thy throne. 
That darkness be not mine, to take my place. 
Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space ! 
So may this wondrous Life, from sin made free, 
Reflect Thy love for aye, and to Thy glory be. 
Washington Allston. 



Lyra Americana. 273 




O ALL YE WORKS OF THE LORD, 
BLESS TE THE LORD. 

THOU, that once on Horeb stood 
Revealed within each burning 
tree, 
To-day, as well, in each green wood, 
Be seen by hearts that yearn for Thee. 
Each shining leaf is bright with God, 
Each bough, a prophet's " budding rod," 
Each by Thy flaming sun illumed. 
Yet each, like Horeb's, unconsumed. 

O Thou, whose hand poured Jordan's stream, 

Whose Angel-dove hung o'er its wave, 
To hallow with a heavenly gleam 

The Son whose love a world would save ; — 
Bring from the waters at our side 
Some whisper, gentle as their tide, 
Saying, like Christ on Galilee — 
That holier lake, — Peace, Peace to thee ! 
12* 



274 Lyra Americana. 

We pray, O Lord, who touched the mount, 

We pray through Him who stilled the sea, — 
May every outward sight a fount 
Of inward life and courage be. 
The radiant bush, the white-winged dove, 
The fire of faith, the peace of love. 
Uplift our souls, and urge them on 
To take the cross, to wear the crown. 

F. D. Huntington. 




Lyra Americana. 275 




correspondences: 

LL things in nature are beautiful 
types to the soul that reads them ; 
Nothing exists upon earth, but for 
unspeakable ends, 
Every object that speaks to the senses was meant 

for the spirit ; 
Nature is but a scroll ; God's handwriting there- 
on. 
Ages ago when man was pure, ere the flood 

overwhelmed him, 
While in the image of God every soul yet lived. 
Every thing stood as a letter or word of a lan- 
guage familiar, 
Telling of truths which now only the angels 

can read. 
Lost to man was the key of those sacred hiero- 
glyphics. 
Stolen away by sin, till by heaven restored. 



276 Lyra Americana. 

Now with infinite pains we here and there spell 

out a letter, 
Here and there will the sense feebly shine through 

the dark. 
When we perceive the light that breaks through 

the visible symbol, 
What exultation is ours! We the discovery 

have made ! 
Yet is the meaning the same as when Adam 

lived sinless in Eden, 
Only long hidden it slept, and now again is 

revealed. 
Man unconsciously uses figures of speech every 

moment. 
Little dreaming the cause why to such terms he 

is prone. 
Little dreaming that every thing here has its 

own correspondence 
Folded within its form, as in the body the soul. 
Gleams of the mystery fall on us still, though 

much is forgotten, 
And though our commonest speech, illumine 

the path of our thoughts. 

Thus doth the lordly sun shine forth a type of 

God-head ; 
Wisdom and love the beams that stream on a 

darkened world. 



Lyra Americana. 277 

Thus do the sparkling waters flow, giving joy to 

the desert, 
And the fountain of life opens itself to the 

thirst. 
Thus doth the word of God distil like the rain 

and the dew-drops ; 
Thus doth the warm wind breathe like to the 

Spirit of God ; 
And the green grass and the flowers are signs of 

the regeneration. 

O Thou Spirit of Truth, visit our minds once 

more ; 
Give us to read in letters of light the language 

celestial. 
Written all over the earth, written all over the 

sky — 
Thus may we bring our hearts once more to 

know our Creator, 
Seeing in all things around, types of the Infinite 

Mind. 

Christopher P. Cranch. 



278 Lyra Americana. 




THE FOUNTAIN. 

EEP within a quiet valley 

Burst a fountain forth to light ; 
Burst, and sprang instinctive up- 
v^ard — 

For its source w^as on the height. 
But its bright and eager waters 

Gained not far their upward track ; 
Bonds invisible detained them, 
And they fell exhausted back ! 

On that fountain's crystal margin 

Dreamily I sat reclined, 
Listened to the fountain's music, 

Wished I might its chain unbind ! 
Thought, though hands unseen extending 

Still drew back its silver rain, 
Summer suns would soon release it — 

Soon as cloud 'twould mount again ! 



Lyra Americana. 279 

In my bosom's quiet valley 

Bursts the fount of life its sod ; 
Bursts, and springs instinctive upward — 

For its lofty source is God ! 
But that striving spirit-fountain 

Gains not far its upward track ; 
Bonds invisible detain it — 

Oft it sinks exhausted back ! 

On that fountain's crystal margin 

Sits a spirit, still-reclined! 
Radiant, now, with silver pinion — 

But a soul, from earth refined ! 
Still that gentle spirit watches. 

Waits till mine shall rend its chain ; 
While its pinion, half-unfolding. 

Lures my soul the height to gain ! 

Richard Storrs Willis. 



28o Lyra Americana. 




THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

HE smile of summer's golden brow 
Into a deepening frown has 
passed ; 
I hear stern winter's coming now 
Muttered upon the sullen blast : 
The leaves that danced in careless glee 

Are dropping with each harsher breath ; 
And on each quivering cheek I see 
Glisten the hectic bloom of death. • 

Yet o'er this autumn landscape sad 

Has crept unseen a mellower day ; 
November's scowling eye is glad 

With all the kindling fire of May. 
Peeps a stray bluebird from his nook, 

His half-forgotten tune to sing ; 
And the green alder by the brook 

Smiles, as if dreaming of the spring. 



Lyra Americana. 281 

I watch, in this long twilight-hush, 

Lake, woodland bathed in soft repose. 
And yonder hill, whose burning blush 

Beneath the sun's fond kisses glows. 
A trance of joy o'er earth and air ! 

A Sabbath eve of holy bliss. 
That prophecies a morrow, fair 

As is the memory of this. 

And now, on winged fancies bright, 

As the first wren his exile leaves, 
I build my nest of brooding thought 

Beneath the well-remembered eaves. 
Sweet season ! in thy happy face, 

Thou summer's lingering, orphan child ! 
The image of the past I trace. 

The joy that out of sorrow smiled. 

I see above me hang the clouds. 

Long darkling o'er the early years ; 
I think of loves the grave enshrouds ; 

Of eyes oft wet with bitter tears : 
Rose-buds of youth, whose petals white 

Opened dew-gemmed ; — but ah ! how brief 
That morning dream ! the frost of night 

Palsied so soon the new-born leaf. 

Fade, fade away, ye mists of pain ! 
I stand above my silent dead ; 



282 Lyra Americana. 

Thro' glistening tear-drops of the rain 
The sunbeam gilds the grassy bed : 

And see ! where one white blossom hes, 
Nestling amidst the mosses deep, 

And whispers with its starry eyes ; — 
God giveth His beloved sleep. 

O hallowed, healing eventide ! 

O mild-eyed loiterer of the year ! 
Thou goest, but not with thee glide 

These kindly hopes that linger here. 
Still whisper, as thy foot departs. 

Soft in the gloaming of the West, 
The after-sunshine of our hearts. 

The Indian Summer of the breast. 

E. A. Washburn. 




Lyra Americana. 283 




HTMN TO NIGHT. 

{Suggested by the bas-relief of Thorwaldsen.) 

*ES ! bear them to their rest ; 
The rosy babe, tired with the glare 

of day, 
The prattler, fallen asleep e'en in 
his play ; 
Clasp them to thy soft breast, 
O Night ; 
Bless them in dreams with a deep-hushed 
delight. 

Yet must they wake again. 
Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, 
The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife. 

Ay, to the conscience pain : 
O Night, 
Canst thou not take with them a longer flight ? 



284 Lyra Americana. 

Canst thou not bear them far 
E'en now, all innocent, before they know 
The taint of sin, its consequence of woe, 

The world's distracting jar, 
O Night, 
To some ethereal, holier, happier height ? 

Canst thou not bear them up, 
Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim 
And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him 

Who drank for us the cup, 
O Night, 
The cup of wrath, for hearts in faith contrite ? 

To Him, for them who slept 
A babe all lowly on his mother's knee. 
And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary, 
In all our sorrows wept, 
O Night, 
That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheer- 
ing light ? 

Go, lay their little heads 
Close to that human heart, with love divine 
Deep-beating, while His arms immortal twine 
Around them, as He sheds, 
O Night, 
On them a brother's grace of God's own bound- 
less might. 



Lyra Americana. 285 

Let them immortal wake 
Among the deathless flowers of Paradise ; 
Where angel songs of welcome with surprise 

This their last sleep may break, 
O Night, 
And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. 

There can come no sorrow ; 
The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears. 
For, ever young, through Heaven's eternal years, 

In one unfading morrow, 
O Night, 
Nor sin, nor age, nor pain, their cherub beauty 

blight. 

Would we could sleep as they. 
So stainless — and so calm — at rest with Thee, — 
And only wake in Immortality ! 
Bear us with them away, 
O Night, 
To that ethereal, holier, happier height ! 

George W. Bethune. 



286 



Lyra Americana. 



THE HOURS, 



I. A.M. 



NE ! Lord, whose daily mercies 
number 
My waking hours and hours of 
slumber, 

Launched on life's everlasting sea, 
I ask the gales that waft to Thee ! 




II. 



Two ! 'Tis the watcher's loneliest hour ; 
The realm of night has darkest power : 
O Father, let Thine angels keep 
Kind watches o'er a world asleep ! 



III. 



Three ! Ere the dawn's first infant breath. 
Floats o'er the vales the chill of death j 



Lyra Americana 287 

Oh, drive these murky shades afar, 

And come, thou bright and morning Star ! 

IV. 

Four ! And the early laborer wakes ; 
Gray o'er the hills the day-dawn breaks ; 
Oh, warm my heart, celestial ray. 
And shine, and mount, till all be day ! 

V. 

Five ! And beside their peaceful beds 
Bow golden locks and hoary heads 5 
And blessings load the balmy air. 
And strew the way of praise and prayer. 

VI. 

Six ! Night is past, and day is here ; 
Its voices murmur to my ear — 
" Twelve hours the great Taskmaster gave ; 
Work, and be mindful of thy grave ! " 

VII. 

Seven ! Give this day our daily bread ! 
'Tis Thou the countless board hast spread 
Where households meet, and kneel, and part, 
For hall and chamber, field and mart. 



288 Lyra Americana. 



VIII. 



Eight ! And the hours are swift of flight, 
Where love, and home, and young delight. 
And hope, and cheerful labour, leave 
No spectres for the distant eve. 



IX. 



Nine ! Blessings, blessings on the sound 
Of humble school-bells, clashing round ! 
The merry sowers forth they ring. 
And gray-haired men the sheaves shall bring. 



X. 



Ten ! Here we till no Eden's soil ; 
All worthy gain is wrung by toil : 
The world's vast toil, O Father, guide ! 
Thy kingdom first, then all beside ! 



XI. 



Eleven ! And morn has sped so soon ; 
Haste, or the journey stays till noon : 
Woe, if the joyous noonday sun 
Look down, and naught be yet begun ! 



XII. 



Twelve ! Heaven puts on its dazzling robe, 
And festal pomp girds round the globe ; 



Lyra Americana. 289 

For God is love, and life, and light. 
And joy, and majesty, and right. 

I. — P.M. 

One ! One step downward ! Oh, be mine 
The faithful morning's rich decline. 
And faith's calm vision clear and clearei. 
As hope's bright shore grows near and nearer ! 

II. 

Two ! Victory hovering in the West, 
The soldier craves not soon to rest ; 
With wiser heart and cooler nerve. 
Content to sufFer and to serve. 



III. 

Thre E ! Shadowing clouds course o'er the plain, 
And gentle breezes curl the main ; 
And sober toil is half repose. 
While day sinks lovelier than it rose. 

IV. 

Four ! If along life's dusty street 
A moment pause my wayworn feet. 
May some kind angel stoop and smile, 
And whisper sweet, " A little while ! " 

13 



290 Lyra Americana. 



Five ! The long shadows of the hills, 
A pensive pleasing music fills, 
Where Nature, with all sounds of peace. 
Gives the kind signal of release. 

VI. 

Six ! And the twelve hours' toil is past ! 
O Father, bring us home at last ! 
Home, as at eve we love to meet ; 
No clouded eye, no vacant seat ! 

VII. 

Seven ! And as star by star appears. 
All heaven the desert wanderer cheers. 
Maps the dark pathway o'er the billow. 
And smiles on childhood's weary pillow. 

VIII. 

Eight 1 Now the moon, with silver shield. 
Pale splendour pours o'er wave and field : 
Oh thus, when brighter joys depart. 
Let soothing peace still fold my heart ! 

IX. 

Nine ! And our curfew ! Bending low, 
" Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; ' 



Lyra Americana. 291 

And Thou, whose love the long day gave, 
Still pardon, succour, guide, and save ! 



Ten ! Who would loiter in the dance, 
Where pleasure hangs on folly's glance. 
While night sits throned in starry blaze. 
And tells us more than all our days ? 

XI. 

Eleven ! The sentry walks the camp ; 
The student lingers o'er the lamp : 
The world may sleep, but I would wake. 
And watch, and toil, for love's sweet sake. 

XII. 

Twelve ! Echoing through the midnight halls, 
The knell of time to judgment calls : 
O, Saviour, write my daily story. 
Till I shall sleep, and wake in glory 1 

Bishop Burgess. 



292 Lyra Americana. 




PRATER FOR THE NEW TEAR, 

ORD ! who, o'erlooking sin and sin. 
Still lengthen'st out my days, 
Let me this new-born year begin 
With love, and prayer, and praise ! 

As Thou, through all the chequered past, 

Hast safely kept my way. 
Secure on Thee, until the last, 

I'll lean from day to day. 

Whate'er the mercies Thou shalt shower, 

Grace be the chiefest gift ! 
And heavenward, with its sovereign power. 

My grovelling spirit lift ! 

And, when these numbered years no more 

Shall mark my fleeting race. 
Provide, upon the eternal shore. 

Even for me^ a place. 

Bishop Eastburn. 



Lyra Americana. 293 




MISERERE DOMINE, 

HOU, who lookest with pitying eye 
From Thy radiant home on high, 
On the Spirit tempest-tost. 
Wretched, weary, wandering, lost 5 

Ever ready help to give. 

And entreating, " Look and Live ! " 

By that love exceeding thought. 

Which from Heaven the Saviour brought ; 

By that mercy which could dare 

Death to save us from despair, 

Lowly bending at Thy feet, 

We adore, implore, entreat. 

Lifting heart and voice to Thee — 
Miserere Domine ! 

With the vain and giddy throng. 
Father ! we have wandered long. 
Eager from Thy paths to stray. 
Chosen the forbidden way 5 



294 Lyra Americana. 

Heedless of the light within, 
Hurried on from sin to sin, 
And with scoffers madly trod 
On the mercy of our God ! 
Now to where Thine altars burn, 
Penitently we return : 
Though forgotten, Thou hast not 
To be merciful forgot ; 
Hear our suppliant cries to Thee — 
Miserere Domtne ! 

From the burden of our grief 
Who but Thou, can give relief? 
Who can pour salvation's light 
On the darkness of our night ? 
Bowed our load of sin beneath. 
Who redeem our souls from death ? 
If in man we put our trust. 
Scattered are our hopes like dust ! 
Smitten by Thy chastening rod, 
Lo ! we cry to Thee, our God ! 
From the perils of our path. 
From the terrors of Thy wrath, 
Save us, when we look to Thee — 
Miserere Domine ! 

Where the pastures greenly grow. 
Where the waters gently flow. 



Lyra Americana. 



295 



And beneath the sheltering Rock, 
With the Shepherd rests the flock — 
Oh, let us be gathered there, 
Under Thy paternal care ; 
Love and labour, and rejoice 
With the people of thy choice, 
Till the toils of life are done. 
Till the fight is fought and won. 
And the crown with heavenly glow 
Sparkles on the victor's brow ! 
Hear the prayer we Hft to Thee, 
Miserere Domine I 

William H. Burleigh. 





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